


His Need is Such, He Pretends Too Much

by Loz



Category: NCIS
Genre: Anthony DiNozzo/Ziva (allusions), Fake Character Death, M/M, Non-Chronological, Timothy McGee/Abby (allusions)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-10
Updated: 2010-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-26 04:38:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3837358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim is forced to fake his own death and go into hiding. Meanwhile, he and Tony have been engaged in a relationship... of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song ‘The Great Pretender.’

Dying made him re-evaluate his life.

Before it had happened, before he’d been buried, he’d been on a journey of self-enrichment. How to be a better man in ninety-nine small but steady steps. A little voice always telling him what he could do to be extra awesome, a personal trainer, a new hobby each year. Layer upon layer of complexity, sandwiching a creamy inner core of substance. He hoped. He’d wanted to change, to be more than he was. He’d been trying to evolve, to be smarter, stronger, fitter, sexier.

Right now? He would give anything to be former Webelos Special Agent Timothy McGee, über-geeky MIT and John Hopkins graduate who was too trusting for his own good, and too good not to be trusting. Hell, he’d even prefer to be High School student Timothy McGee, paying his way to college by cleaning portable toilets. He didn’t exactly want to be Thom E Gemcity, because there was a deadline looming and 12,000 missing words.

He wanted to be who he was, no more confident, no more wise, nothing special. Just a guy who loved computers and solving crime. Someone who didn’t always say the right things, wear the right clothes. But had the right intentions. Most of the time. He wanted to be working on Gibbs’ team, hacking when the need called for it, sending out BOLOs, doing the grunt work, smiling at Ziva, bickering with Tony.

He didn’t want to be legally dead, living under an assumed name, wondering if he’d ever see the team in the flesh again, if he’d ever get to work with them again.

It didn’t seem fair that he should have to go through this ordeal to have this epiphany. He was positive most people either came to accept themselves for who they were out of sheer laziness, or that they never did at all. And it wasn’t that he thought all forms of self-improvement were corrupt, or unnecessary, or pointless, it was just --- he had spent so much time concentrating on who he could be, that he’d forgotten to enjoy who he was.

Dying made him re-evaluate his life and determine that he wanted it back.

*

There were words for how shitty his day had been. Actually, shitty just about covered it. Being a desk monkey was not why he’d signed up for NCIS, even though he recognised his skills tended toward sitting behind a computer all day. He didn’t hate it, most of the time. It wasn’t like he woke up dreading work, would deliberately stay up until 3 am slaying kobolds because going to sleep meant waking up all the sooner (not always.) It was simply not what he wanted, in the long run.

He was prepared to admit to himself that when Tony DiNozzo rang to ask for technical assistance, the deep, dark, motivated part of himself he usually kept a close eye on sprang to life and suggested that this could be his way into field work. He jotted down the directions Tony gave him and figured out which bus routes he needed to get there.

Tony was weirdly overjoyed to see him. Tim hadn’t experienced this kind of glee at his appearance since Brian Weinstein saw him in costume as George Washington in eighth grade. It hadn’t been a good sign then and Tim doubted it was a good sign now.

“You made it, McGee!”

Tim tentatively stepped across the threshold. “Yeah. Once you get past the guys with guns, the first moat, and the sharks with lasers in the second moat, you’re pretty much home free.”

“You made it and sarcasm does not become you. Please, come in, but don’t touch anything.”

Tony gestured to his couch, but as Tim had just been told not to touch anything, he was confused --- was he meant to sit? Was this a test? Tony was staring at him like he was an idiot. He sat down, rubbing his knees to stop his legs from jittering.

“Where’s your system?”

“What system?”

“Computer system?”

Tony shook his head. “Don’t worry about that yet. Do you want a drink? What’s your poison?”

“Water would be good,” Tim said. He glanced around Tony’s apartment as Tony went to get the drinks. There was a wall full of DVDs, a coffee table covered in magazines. Not much of a sense of order. He dreaded to think what his hard drive might look like. “So what’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t know. Blinky things aren’t blinking any more. It’s not important,” Tony replied, handing over a large glass. “So, anyway, I pulled out my _Star Wars_ DVDs, because I’ve been told your people like them.”

“My people?”

“Geeks. And I was thinking, we should totally watch these, now that they’re out and everything.”

Tim’s stomach flipped a couple of times and he worked hard at not letting that terror show. Tony was smirking, and sitting next to him, leaning back with casual grace, and Tim could see himself being dunked head first into a toilet in ten seconds flat. He placed his glass carefully on the coffee table.

“Your computer’s fine, isn’t it?”

“Possibly. I never use it. I made popcorn.”

“Okay,” Tim said, wanting to say so much more besides, but not brave enough to protest.

“Great!”

Tony grabbed the popcorn, started the DVD, and sprawled into an even more relaxed position --- too close for comfort. Tim spent the first portion of the film watching him out of the corner of his eye. He finally relaxed when Obi Wan told Luke he needed to learn the ways of the force.

By the time they’d eaten all the popcorn and home-made calzones, Tony had shown him his Ewok impression, and the Rebel celebrations raged on Endor, Tim was half-asleep. He stretched his legs forward and closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the beat of his heart. The couch was soft and warm and he was feeling satisfyingly full and entertained. The quiet didn’t last for long. Before he knew it, feminine moans were emanating from the television and every single one of his senses sprang wide awake.

Tony was sitting, eyes glued to the television, hand idling over his crotch. On screen, two women were pleasuring themselves, long fingernails glistening as they contorted in interestingly flexible ways.

Tim could feel the blush creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears, and he tried not to, but he squeaked. “What’re you doing?”

“I’m watching porn. It’s what most red blooded men do.”

“Not in polite company.”

“You’re polite?” Tony asked with a wide, amused grin. “Most house guests bring a present for their host. Dessert or wine, or those cute little truffle chocolate things that melt in your mouth. You brought nothing but yourself.”

“I didn’t know I was a guest, I thought you were using me ---” Tim stopped himself, licked his lower lip. He’d been distracted again. Tony had already proven to be upsettingly adept at that.

“For what?”

“As free tech support,” he concluded, lamely.

Tony’s grin widened. “That was just the bait.” He turned back to the screen, popped open the button on his jeans.

Tim figured this was his cue to leave. Tony was playing some kind of game with him, luring him to his house and then kicking him out to exert his power. He was not going to let Tony push him around. He stayed sitting, watching the porn with detached interest. One of the girls, the brunette, was thrusting three fingers into herself, over acting as she pouted at the camera. Tony had escalated to pulling his cock free from his boxers, stroking rhythmically. Tim could see every movement in his peripheral vision.

“You intrigue me, McGee,” Tony said, voice rich and slow.

“Good for you.”

“This is making you uncomfortable.”

“Wow, is it that obvious?”

“But you haven’t left.”

“No. I’m not gonna let you toy with me for your amusement. Screw you.”

Tim chanced a direct look at Tony and was a little disturbed to see an expression he couldn’t decode. Tony bit his lower lip, leaned closer. Tim thought he was probably going to haul him up off the couch now, toss him out the apartment. He wasn’t exactly banking on Tony kissing him.

If he hadn’t thought this whole situation was like something out of a mirrorverse version of his life before, he certainly did now.

He kissed Tony back. He was turned on and Tony was attractive and he hadn’t had sex in a really long time --- and Tim could continue supplying excuses as to why he was sucking gently on Tony’s tongue and pushing closer, but there was no point. They were kissing.

Tony went straight for the kill, undoing the zipper on his pants and gripping him. Tim was already half-hard, so the touch was more than welcome and he canted his hips up for more contact. Tony ended the kiss, staring into Tim’s eyes as he started to stroke, the beginnings of a lop-sided smile curving his lips.

“You know I’m not gay, right, Tony?” Tim asked, experiencing a heady mixture of elation and fear.

“I didn’t ask and I’m gonna pretend you didn’t tell,” Tony replied. He gestured at the screen with his free hand. “But ditto, for what it’s worth.”

Tim wanted to simply enjoy sensation and forget about logic for a while, but even though he was mostly distracted by Tony’s thumb glancing across the top of his cock, his brain was still working overtime.

“Then what is this?”

“Do you have to analyse everything?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s kind of my job.”

Tony squinted at him, rolled his head around like he was rolling Tim’s words in his mind. “It’s two guys enjoying some guy time together.”

“I think you’ve gotten one of your vowels confused.”

“Don’t be a smartass,” Tony said, thrusting his own hips close into his side.

Tony continued to stroke him and Tim finally bought a clue, wrapping his hand around Tony’s cock, quirking his eyebrow in query. Tony nodded, his grin growing wider. Tim let his confusion go float around somewhere outside as he let his instinct take over, pushing Tony so that his back was again pressed close to the back of the couch. He swung around and positioned himself so that their cocks were aligned, adjusting until he had them just right. The angle hurt his left knee, and he was worried he might be a little too heavy, so he tried to keep all his weight on his right foot, but Tony held onto his sides and looked up at him with a kind of admiration that had him forgetting to care. He began to stroke them simultaneously, using both of his hands to slide up and down, precome making it easier than he expected, all slippery and slick.

“Okay, this is precisely why,” Tony said, didn’t finish the sentence, and reached up to kiss Tim. He slid his tongue into his mouth, smooth and easy, and Tim’s last truly complete thought, with a beginning, middle and end, was ‘he should win all kinds of awards.’

*

He stayed as still as he could. An inadequate part of him always wanted to run away when Gibbs was staring at him like that, and six years of working for him had done exactly nothing to assuage his all-encompassing fear that Gibbs would somehow find a way to stare him into oblivion. Sometimes he wished he were a Marine, but even they would crumble before the death glare. Neither Kate nor Ziva had managed to stand up tall and incur his wrath. Abby succeeded in wrapping Gibbs around her little finger, but she had that effect on everyone. None of the directors had ever had a handle on him. And Tony. Well, Tony pushed on occasion, but never got very far, and beat himself up whenever he did something that would even remotely disappoint Gibbs. The only person Tim had seen stand up to Gibbs and not crack into a million pieces was Ducky, and they had known each other a long time. He knew he wasn’t alone when it came to his fear, but it took almost every ounce of his self-control not to let it destroy him until he was little more than an incomprehensible gibber.

“The boat’s coming along nicely, Boss.”

“Ya think, McGee?”

Tim especially hated it when Gibbs responded to his nervous idle chit-chat with accusation. He averted his gaze back to the shell of the boat and tried to decide if the question was rhetorical or not. Gibbs sighed. Tim continued looking at the boat. Gibbs shifted his weight from his left to his right foot. Tim continued looking at the boat, now wondering why Gibbs was behaving uncharacteristically. Gibbs stepped close to him. The boat looked majestic in the dull lighting.

“Tim, I want you to go deep undercover.”

Tim’s full attention was snapped right back onto Gibbs. “Boss, are you serious?”

“Yeah. I am.”

“Sweet!” Tim grinned in glee at the idea of finally going undercover. Then replayed Gibbs’ words in his mind. “Wait. How deep?”

“Deep. You’re gonna be required to infiltrate a terrorist cell.”

“Wouldn’t Ziva be better suited to that kind of work?”

“Well, yeah, McGee, but she doesn’t have a Masters in computer science, nor does she regularly hack into public services and know almost everything there is to know when it comes to technical stuff. And she is also not American.” Gibbs took a swig of bourbon and peered at the jar he took it from. “It’s a joint FBI, NCIS mission. The FBI received intel that a home-grown organisation was looking for a new hacker. They’re one of those vigilante groups --- think the only way to win the war on terror is to create more terror. At least, that’s what they say. Fornell suspects their motivation isn’t even that noble. It’s more about making a profit.”

Tim shrugged his shoulders a couple of times to loosen muscles that had become tense. “How long?”

 

“As long as it takes.”

“Before the infiltration?”

“As soon as possible.”

Tim spun the pros and cons around in his head. Pro: He’d be undercover! Con: He’d be undercover. Pro: He’d be using his skills to help defend his country. Con: At first, he’d be using his skills to destroy his country. Pro: This was challenging and new. Con: This was potentially life threatening and involved a great deal of change in a short amount of time.

He went on in this fashion for a while, weighing it up. He had as many cons as he did pros, and some of them overlapped.

“For the record, I don’t like this, but I owe Fornell. And the reason we’re asking you, Tim, is that you’re the only person with the talent to pull it off that we absolutely, positively know we can trust.”

Tim frowned, willed himself not to pout. “When you put it like that, how can I say no?”

“Is that a yes?”

Tim took a deep, bracing breath. “Yeah, Boss. I’ll do it.”

Gibbs nodded, once. Took his phone from his pocket. “Fornell will brief you in full. He can be here in twenty minutes.”

Tim blanched. “You really did mean as soon as possible.”

“There’ll be no long goodbyes. There’s no time.”

“I understand.”

“Let’s hope Abby, Ziva, Ducky and Tony do.”

“Don’t forget Jimmy.”

“I wasn’t aware you two were close.”

Tim made a half-hearted sound of assent and tried to figure out if he was meant to be feeling overjoyed or terrified. He settled on feeling anticipatory. That way, he was good and neutral.

*

Twenty minutes after telling Tim he was promoted, Gibbs took him aside and gave him a quick rundown of the first twenty rules he’d have to learn to live by. Tim stood under the air conditioning vent and listened, rapt and alert as sweat slowly evaporated from his body and tingled against the fine hairs of his skin.

“Rule twelve is probably the most applicable at this current moment in time,” Gibbs finished, poking Tim in the chest with only a vague threat of menace. Perhaps unbridled joy was blocking Tim’s danger receptors.

“How so, Boss?”

Gibbs gave him the look he gave when he wasn’t being nice. The usual look. “You remember what rule twelve is, don’t you, McGee?”

“Never date a co-worker?”

“That would be the one.”

Tim’s mouth went dry. Sweat trickled into one of his eyes. He had an itch on his nose. He had to think about anything other than the voice in his head screaming ‘he knows about Tony! What the hell do I do?’

“You’re gonna have to break it off with Abby, McGee.”

Tim nodded. He was supposed to be explaining, but he nodded all the same, because his relief was palpable. “Right Boss.”

“My suggestion? Be gentle, but firm. Don’t apologise.”

Gibbs started to walk away, but Tim knew how close they were and if Abby were to find out he made it sound like he’d ended their relationship, when she’s told him weeks ago it wouldn’t work out --- there would be hell to pay.

“To be honest, Boss, Abby already broke it off with me.”

By this time, Gibbs was several feet away. “I don’t care.”

Tim was about to go back to the desk he’d been given to take another look at the internals to his new computer (not having read any regulations against overclocking the CPU), when Tony came close. He was exceptionally bad at not looking furtive. He cast his eyes around the room at least three times before turning his interrogative stare onto Tim.

“What’d the Boss say?”

“He said ‘watch out for DiNozzo, he’s nothing but a bad influence. You’d be advised to ignore everything he says.’”

“Really?”

“No. Just said I shouldn’t let you push me around. And told me the first twenty of his rules. The other thirty are coming later, apparently.”

“Lucky! When I joined Gibbs’ team, I was given a five hour lecture on the ins and outs of conduct at NCIS. It was gruelling. Intense. I was almost reduced to tears. But, of course, not entirely, because I am me and me is awesome.”

Tim could feel the corners of his lips twitching. “I don’t believe you.”

“You wound me, McGee.”

“Gibbs never says more than a paragraph in an hour.”

“It was mostly conducted through glares.” Tony crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. Tim’s immediate reaction was a physical one, a compulsion to lean close, but he quashed it before it could fully form. “I think we should start your initiation tonight in the comfort of my home. Maybe over food. A beer or two.”

Tim blinked a couple of times, swallowed thickly. “I’m not sure that’s a great idea, Tony.”

“You’re busy. Of course. New job. New expectations. New set of clothes, for sure, because, no offense, but you look like a hobo who dresses two sizes too large in the dead of night.”

“No.” Tim exhaled and stared at Tony as he tried to decide how to say this when he really didn’t want to. “Rule twelve,” he said quietly, willing his chest to stop constricting.

“Isn’t applicable. We’re friends, McGee. There are no rules against that. In fact, it’s actively encouraged.”

Tim drew close, holding onto Tony’s lapels as he spoke barely above a whisper. “Last time we had some food and a beer or two in the comfort of your home, the evening concluded with my cock in your mouth. We’re very friendly friends.”

Tony’s jaw hardened and he stepped away from Tim’s grasp. “Huh. You know, I should have seen this coming, but I had no idea they trained you to be so devious and deceptive at Norfolk.”

“ _Tony._ ”

“Probie.”

Tim flailed, eyebrows raised. “I don’t want it to be like this.”

“No, I get it. Honestly, I do. The job is more important than us having fun. It’s not like either of us is gonna be lonely for long. If anything, that’s more likely for you more than me. I guess I’m disappointed because I never expected you to be so calculating. But, you know, once again, of course you are. You’re ambitious. It should be admired.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Don’t worry, McGee. I won’t be any worse on you than I would be on any other Probie. Call it my congratulatory gift to you.”

Tony gave a bitter little smile and walked away. Tim didn’t have the guts to stop him. It wasn’t like he had anything to say that would explain his case without Tony concluding he was a selfish user, so why expend the energy?

*

Having red hair didn’t suit him in the slightest. It looked natural, fitted his complexion, but every time he looked in the mirror, he wanted to scream ‘wrong, wrong, wrong’ at his reflection. He’d read somewhere that disguising your appearance this way only drew attention to you, but it had been Fornell’s suggestion, and he was in the FBI, they did this kind of thing all the time, he had to know what he was talking about, didn’t he?

He checked his feeds, ensuring his link with the cameras was still in place. He’d tried to hack into Abby’s lab a month into his solitary confinement, but no luck. After the last time the webcam had been unknowingly taken over, they’d taken measures. He was unable to hack through his own defences, which made him feel a mixture of victorious and pathetic he didn’t want to spend much time analysing. He hadn’t known this would ever happen, so he hadn’t created a back door, and now he wished he was no more than he was except maybe a little psychic. He was still connected with the surveillance cameras outside, though.

He told himself it wasn’t totally creepy to be spying on his work colleagues this way. He was curious. He was bored. He missed them. And the fact he was at his computer every day, looking intently at the screen around the time Tony arrived for work was pure coincidence.

So he was unprepared for how concerned he would be when Tony didn’t appear at his prescribed time. Or thirty minutes late. Or four hours later. Tony had the day off. Tony would have to be suffering the pneumonic plague to not be at work. Colds, stomach bugs, hang-overs --- nothing stopped him from arriving --- not always on time, but eventually. He might not do a whole lot while he was there (though Tim knew appearances were deceiving even on that front), but he was _there_. Wisecracking at Gibbs, flirting with Ziva. He wasn’t on holiday, he hadn’t accrued enough leave. Either he was on another secret mission, or something else was going on. Tim didn’t want to think about what those other things might be.

But he did, as he was doing his crunches. Thought about it more when he worked on shoulder presses, lateral raises and curls. His whole routine, not once concentrating on his movements, instead worrying about what might be wrong. He had the thought that maybe Tony had gone back to the office late at night and stayed all day, so he went through and checked. No Tony. He’d left the night before and hadn’t arrived since.

Day turned into night and he hacked into the ATM camera near Tony’s place, setting his recognition software running when he could feel his eyes straining. Chances were, he was panicking. He’d gotten paranoid constantly having to hide. But there was also a chance Tony was in trouble, and that disturbed him, more than he cared to admit.

*

Tim finished typing up the last word on his sympathy note as his ipod told him that, "Our attitude toward life determines life's attitude toward us." All he had to do now was print the letter off and sign it.

His attitude toward life was decidedly mixed. He hadn’t been able to save Erin, no matter how hard he tried. He’d screwed up, and a young, brilliant, wonderful person had been denied the right to reach her full potential. It had been a rookie mistake, one that proved to him that he deserved every hazing, every joke, any plea for coffee sent his way. Kate had done her best to console him. She’d said it wasn’t his fault, but it was. If he’d been faster, or told Erin to stay on the line from the beginning. If he hadn’t been across the street. The possibilities whirled around his mind, gathering speed and strength the later it got.

He was halfway down the bus route in the opposite direction to his apartment before he realised he was halfway in the right direction for Tony’s. He could only surmise it had been subconsciously deliberate. He guessed Tony probably had a date. Wasn’t even home. But he knocked on his door anyway, to make sure.

Tony opened the door, took one look at him and stepped to the side. Tim lumbered in, weighed down by exhaustion and self-hatred.

“You want a drink?” Tony asked as he closed the door.

“No. I want you.” Tim reached for Tony, pulled him close. He hadn’t meant to, but somehow he did, his mouth and hands working faster than his brain could.

Tony wriggled loose of his hold. “Hey! Hands off, McGrabby. You said we weren’t gonna do this any more.”

“I know, Tony, I just ---” he sighed, “I need to not feel pathetic.”

Tony narrowed his eyes, smirked. “But what does this mean, McIndecision?”

“Do you have to analyse everything?”

“Not even slightly, but I’m curious.”

Tim rubbed his jaw, wishing he could rub away the whole week, make himself new again, unscathed. “You want me to apologise for pushing you away, is that it?”

“No. It’s a sign of weakness.”

“Yeah? Maybe I’m weak, Tony.” Tim felt like punching something. He settled for balling his fists. “I can’t just push my emotions to the side and soldier on like a good little detective. I’ve tried. I’m not that strong.”

Tony stared at him from under lowered brows; assessing, scrutinizing. “You think it’s meant to come easy? That you wake up one day with a heart of stone?”

“No, but...” Tim flailed. “I wish I had more control. If I hadn’t panicked, if I had been more alert...”

“If you’d been Superman, you mean? Perfect? If you could dodge circumstance and come out the winner? If bad things didn’t happen to good people and crime wasn’t committed, and people you liked never, ever died?”

Tim closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “I may as well have killed Erin myself, I was next to useless to stop her attacker.”

“He’s in jail. You caught him.”

“Too late. The damage was done.”

Tony took hold of his hands, loosened his fists by rubbing gently, and Tim thought he might collapse from relief at the touch. “Welcome to your initiation, Probie. Lesson one, life sucks.” Tony moved closer, letting go of his hands and shrugging his jacket off his shoulders instead. “Lesson two, there are ways to make it better.”

*

Fornell was peering at him like he wanted to read his fine print. Tim allowed him time to examine and peruse. He was reading Fornell.

“You are sure about this, McGee? You’ll be surrounded by dangerous people.”

_‘Really now? And I thought they were that fluffy, loveable kind of vigilante terrorist. Like a carebear.’_ Tim didn’t say.

“I’m up for the challenge,” he said instead, giving the small, self-assured smile he’d practiced in the mirror every morning the past two years.

“There’ll be a test. You’ll have to hack highly sensitive, privileged information.”

“How’s that any different from what he does now?” Gibbs asked, slamming two coffee cups on the table between them.

“This time he’ll be sharing that information with men and women who don’t know the meaning of the word ‘patriot’.”

“There’s women?” Tim asked, aiming for levity, and by the expressions he was met with, failing miserably.

“Your primary contact’s name is Emma King. She isn’t one of them, she headhunts on their behalf. Your meeting with her will be mediated by undercover agent Ian Stern. This is the profile we’ve built for you. Read it, memorise it, live it. A lot of it is true to life because the best lies are couched in reality.”

“And let’s be honest here, McGee, you’re not specifically trained for this,” Gibbs added.

Fornell gave Gibbs a death-stare. “Gibbs, you’re making the boy nervous.”

“He’s not a boy. And we need to face reality, Tobias. McGee’s good, but is he really the best man for the job?”

“You said I was, Boss. You trust me, don’t you?”

“I trust you. Do you trust yourself?”

Tim squared his shoulders. “I know I can do this. I want to do this.”

“I think you have your answer, Gibbs. McGee, you’ll be meeting with Stern and King at eight in the morning, at Shenandoah Park. Try and get at least some sleep so that you’ll have your wits about you. Leave everything else up to us.”

*

When Ziva first became part of their team, she very quickly tried to establish a rapport. Inviting him over for dinner, seeking his advice. And Tony very quickly became jealous. Tim wasn’t blind, he’d seen the spark between them, the one-two step of seduction Ziva danced around Tony’s desk every couple of hours. Tim knew Tony was angry ‘McGeek’ was getting in the way of inter-agency passion, likely result an NCIS/Mossad lovechild that could make three linked film references while snapping your neck.

Except. Apparently no one had told Tony that’s what had been going on. Because two nights after being trapped in a box with Ziva, Tony was at Tim’s door with a pepperoni, sausage and extra cheese pizza, what looked like more beer than either of them could healthily consume in a week, and a gigantic box of condoms.

As far as understanding Tony went, Tim did considerably better with decrypting 256-bit Rijndael.

For around ten minutes, Tim successfully convinced himself that Tony was letting his sexual frustration out on him because he was accessible. Ten minutes of slightly disgruntled acquiescence, because, seriously, who was going to complain about sex with ‘The Sex Machine’? (but, dammit, was this what he was reduced to? Being a casual fuck-buddy whenever Tony felt like it? No say in the matter at all? Apparently.)

Ten minutes before Tony mumbled, “Do you trust me, McGee?”

“That depends,” Tim had said, which, with 20/20 hindsight, had really not been the brightest thing to say.

“On what?”

“Well, what are the parameters?”

“Your life?”

Tim thought about it. Nodded. “Yeah, I trust you with my life. You’re a highly skilled field operative who is ridiculously brave.”

“Ridiculously?”

“Almost certifiable about it.”

This had been the point that even past-Tim had realised he was wading into dangerous waters. Tony’s eyes had clouded over and he’d gotten that tight, clenched look in his jaw he knew too well. His eyelids had flickered, twice, and he’d tilted his head a millimetre to the left.

“So what wouldn’t you trust me with?”

“My vintage records? My latest manuscript? Uh, lemme see. Childhood stories. The formulation of a diet. My sister...”

“I get the point, Probie.”

“... my 28 inch LCD monitor, any type of glue, my online handle, the keys to my future car.”

“I said I get the point.”

The sex had been hard and rough in all the right ways, Tony pinning Tim and handcuffing one of his wrists to the headboard.

In post-coital reflection, Tim thought he shouldn’t have continued goading, but it had been irresistible, and he hadn’t recognised the need in Tony’s voice, hadn’t considered his motivations in context, was too insecure to think that Tony might have acted the way he did because he was jealous _for_ him, not of him.

Even if he had wanted to live in self-delusion for a while, the bite marks and finger-tip bruises had been a continuous reminder that Tony had twisted his perceptions. He’d had a week of staring at souvenirs that called to mind harsh-throated words.

“I want you to think about how I make you feel if you ever fuck her, and ask yourself how we compare. I guarantee this is better.”

*

At three in the morning Tim put a trace on the GPS in Tony’s phone. It showed up as being at the office, which concerned Tim further, because Tony always had his phone. (Through rain, sleet, hail, or snow, he _had_ his phone. He’d made jokes about taping it to sensitive parts of his anatomy when the need called for it.) Ziva’s and Gibbs’ phones showed as them being at their homes.

Tony didn’t appear later that morning. Or the day after that. At which point, Gibbs could no longer be seen entering or exiting the office, his GPS signal completely lost. On the fourth day, Ziva went missing. Tim freaked out. He checked through their bank records and discovered Tony hadn’t used his credit card the last five days. Gibbs had stopped using his two days before. Ziva was still using hers, having just bought gas in Dale City.

He’d had enough of hiding in his safe house, waiting for the answers to come to him. He didn’t care how dangerous it was, or if it would blow his cover. If his team was in trouble, he had to help them. He put traps into place in his apartment and geared up. If Ziva was in Dale City, or had been, that was where he had to go. And hope she was on the trail of Gibbs and Tony.

*

Tim glared up at the light fitting every time he took a swig of beer. Occasionally he glanced at his laptop on the coffee-table, to check if his mods had finished downloading. Tony was watching _Bad Boys II_ , which, according to him, was one of the rare examples of a sequel being better than its predecessor.

“That’s not what the IMDb says,” Tim said when Tony paused for a toilet break.

“IMDb isn’t always right. They put _American Beauty_ in the Top 250 films category. Not only is it vastly overrated, it’s narrated by Kevin Spacey’s character, who is dead. As a writer, you would know that this goes against one of the unwritten rules of narration.”

“They’re unwritten because they can be broken, Tony.”

“You’d write a story from the perspective of a dead guy?”

“I don’t see why not.” Tim placed his bottle on the table a little too forcefully, the sound reverberating in the apartment.

Tony slid a hand down Tim’s arm, giving him a little shake. “Are you okay? It’s been a tough week, fronting up to the LVM and being mocked by Gibbs.”

“You started it. All that bull-crap about my skincare regimen. You know that lotion was recommended, you drove me to the doctor,” Tim grumbled. He could tell Tony was concealing a smile and it only made him more mad.

Tony stroked his cheek softly, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sorry.”

Tim grabbed his wrist and pulled it away. “No, you’re not. It’s dangerous, don’t you get that? There’s more than rule twelve at play.”

“Newsflash: I was maintaining our cover.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Okay, so, you’re not the most macho of men, I think we can agree there. But you are very clearly a man. I wanted you to assert that man-ness, so that everyone would see you for the man you are. And then their little minds wouldn’t once think you have a gigantic crush on me.”

“You’re insane. You have serious issues.”

“You’re just annoyed because I was questioning your masculinity.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“Yeah, but no one ever would.”

“God, you are so --- I don’t even ---” Tim stood, stormed from the DVD shelf to the bedroom door and back again. “I could have gotten myself killed, asserting my man-ness.”

“Because you were being an idiot.”

Tim glared at Tony, gave a statement rather than asking a question. “You don’t want me to stand up for myself.”

Tony stood, placed his hands on Tim’s upper arms. Shook him again. “Of course I do. To me, to people like me, you stand up for yourself. To an organised gang like the LVM, Tim? You suppress any urge you have to threaten or challenge. It’s called a survival instinct. Get one.”

“You make no sense. Not even a little bit. One second you’re ragging on me in front of Ziva --- look how girly Probie is, oh hey, he might be gay --- all in an effort to get me to man up so no one finds out about us. And the next you’re upset because I attempt to show that I’m not girly --- not that there’s anything wrong with being a girl, Tony --- by being a tough guy.”

Tony was cagey. “That sounds about right.”

“What part of that is logical?”

“Every part. I don’t wanna lose you. To protocol or a bullet to the head.”

“If you hadn’t said anything, neither of those was likely to happen now, was it?” Tim asked, because, he truly, honestly, absolutely had no idea why the hell Tony did the things he did. But thinking about what he’d just said was making his heart speed up, far too fast, and oxygen didn’t seem to want to be breathed in any time soon.

Tony shrugged a shoulder, his expression guarded.

Tim frowned. “Hang on, were you warning Ziva off me?”

Tony stepped back, flung his hands up in the air. “I don’t mean to do it. I get bored. And then I think about how friendly you are. And how aggressively sexual Ziva is, and...”

“Look, if either of us is hopping into bed with Ziva, it’s you.”

“I know.”

Tim’s universe tilted to the left. “What?”

“We’re not exclusive.”

“Yeah. If I hadn’t believed the stories, the multiple pairs of panties in your couch told me that.”

Tony sat down on the couch, using his knees as props for his elbows. He rubbed his face a couple of times, took a deep breath, and Tim had the strong impression of a teenager about to ask their long-held unrequited love out on a first date.

“Yeah, so. I think the psychologists call it ‘projecting’, I don’t know. I mean, for the longest time, I was genuinely worried you were --- don’t think that me agreeing before means I don’t think you could score a babe, because we both know you can. And you were both sickly cute together and teaming up against me. But then Ziva started to look at me like, ‘hello’, you know? And the thing is, Probie, I actually really... you make me... I always have... but Ziva is ---” Tony faltered and flailed, face creased up into an origami display of confusion.

Tim sat down next to Tony again, spread his hands wide. “She’s really hot.”

“Yeah.”

“I won’t be angry if you sleep with her, Tony. Last I checked, we weren’t married and I’ve never asked to be your one and only.”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“I’m sure, in your world, it is.”

Tony gazed at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” Tim frowned at the image of Will Smith frozen on the screen. “Restart the movie.”

“Film.”

“No. I’ll grant you _A Fistful of Dollars_ as a film. Something where a dude gets shot, falls on a landmine and is blown in two? Is a movie.”

“You’re so snippy today. Did someone replace one of your personality chips with that of a crab?”

“Did someone replace one of your personality chips with that of a moron? Oh, wait...”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim is forced to fake his own death and go into hiding. Meanwhile, he and Tony have been engaged in a relationship... of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim/Tony, allusions to Tim/Abby, Tony/Ziva. Title from the song ‘The Great Pretender.’

After Fornell left, Tim spent two hours reading through his newly given personal history. He rolled his eyes at one line listing the databases he’d supposedly hacked into before he realised --- that part was true. There was nothing in the profile that contradicted his personality or knowledge so violently he’d be floundering under pressure. He was used to having a hidden life, a different name. He was going to ignore the misgivings that were niggling at the back of his mind. 

“It’s oddly detailed, don’t you think, Boss? It tells me what shaving cream I regularly use.” 

Gibbs shook his head. “Not oddly. You remember rule seven?”

“Of course. Always be specific when you lie.”

“That’s the one.” Gibbs took a bite of his beef burger and ate it slowly, staring at Tim. “If you have any questions, I’d ask while there’s still time.”

Tim hated it when people asked him if he had any questions before he had any idea what his questions might conceivably be. He was the kind of guy who worked through a task systematically, encountering points of interest along the way. People always assumed he was a forward planner, and in some ways he was (there was a line about proper preparation his Dad used to make him repeat), but most of the time, he dove in and took a chance, saw where the journey would take him. He figured it came from years of experience with computers; each one was different, and you may learn particular rules to follow, but you couldn’t perform the exact same action every time. Often, the options changed.

“Well, are there any tips you can give me?”

“Don’t trust anyone, but pretend that you do. Don’t lose sight of the endgame. Be confident but not arrogant.” Gibbs leaned forward. “You don’t need my validation. It doesn’t matter if I trust you or not. You need to believe in yourself.”

Tim considered that, asked himself if he thought he was ready. He came to the conclusion that he’d gotten to the point where he had to take the chance, or he’d always beat himself up over never having had the courage.

“I do, Boss.”

“Confidence suits you, McGee. Keep it up.”

Tim smiled and asked if he could get a breath of fresh air. Gibbs gave him a look like he knew what he was about to do, and was permitting it only because he’d do the same thing in the circumstances. Tim went out and stood under a tree as he dialled Sarah’s number. She wasn’t picking up, so he left her a message and told her he wouldn’t be emailing her for a while, but that he was safe. If he was lucky, Sarah was too wrapped up in her studies to worry about him. She hadn’t called him in a month and every time he’d sent her an email, she either gave a four word reply or didn’t respond at all (the fact his emails were usually links to the latest viral videos meant nothing.)

Tim stared at his phone for several minutes, trying to decide if he should do what he wanted to. Eventually, he dialled again and got Tony’s voicemail. 

“Hey, Tony, you’re not gonna see me at work tomorrow, or the day after that. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I’m going undercover. There are no guarantees here, and this may be my only chance, so I wanted to tell you ---” 

The line went dead and Tim scowled at his phone as he hit redial. He waited for Tony to tell him to leave his message and number and restarted. 

“I love you. Take care. Of yourself and the team. Oh, and Jethro. Feed him twice a day and that is all, no treats. Hopefully I’ll see you soon, after all this is over.”

Tim stared at his phone again when he was finished and rubbed the plastic casing with his thumb. It was a poor substitute.

*

“I met a girl, Timmy,” Tony said, folding his napkin and casting a glance around the restaurant. He returned his focus to Tim, somewhat more intensely than Tim would like.

“That’s not news. It happens pretty much every day,” he replied, softening his sarcasm with a fond smile. 

“This one’s different.” 

Tony suddenly looked his full age, gazing at Tim with a wisdom he usually kept hidden. Tim felt uneasy and glanced down at the breadstick he was holding. His chest had begun clenching painfully, his palms turning clammy. 

“Why do I get a horrible feeling this is an ‘it’s not you, it’s me’. We don’t need this conversation, Tony.”

“From the beginning, have you or have you not been trying to get us to define our relationship?”

“I don’t know if it’s gone way over your head, but I kinda stopped when it became obvious that we’re---“

“That we’re what?” Tony interjected.

Tim lowered his tone to a whisper. “Fuck-buddies.”

“Well, I’m trying really hard to explain why we can’t be that any more, can you let me be a sensitive new age guy for once?”

Tim took a sip of wine, waited. Tony cocked his head to the side and gave a fake smile. 

“I met a girl and I really like her and it’s complicated and it involves commitment,” he said in a rush. “I was thinking about it and I came to the revelation that the only person I’ve been committed to for any length of time in recent years is... you.”

“So long as commitment doesn’t mean any kind of fidelity,” Tim said, excising all bitterness from his voice. “You want advice, is that it?”

“No, Tim. I don’t want advice. I wanna know we’ll still be friends.”

“I have no problem with that. You may have noticed, my track record on that front is impressive.”

Tony sighed, stretched back in his chair. “I’m sensing that you’re not as okay with this as I want you to be.”

Tim gave a hollow laugh. “You brought me to a restaurant to dump me when our ‘relationship’ has never consisted of more than one of us randomly turning up at the other’s apartment for sex, often weeks apart. I’m sensing that you’re an idiot.”

“Okay, if you’re gonna act like a child...” Tony said, raising his hand for the cheque.

Tim grabbed his arm, pulled it back down to the table. 

“I’m happy for you, Tony. I don’t know why you’ve turned this into a big deal when it doesn’t have to be.”

“You’re not even slightly upset?”

“You want me to be?”

Tony’s chest rose and fell and he shrugged. “No, I guess not.”

Tim broke his breadstick, chewed on it as he thought about Tony’s words and his reaction. He’d known this day was going to come eventually, hadn’t predicted it could end any other way, but he never thought it would be acknowledged, just that they’d stop, no words spoken. To talk about it seemed to attach their actions with unnecessary significance, make it more than casual stress-relief. And that’s all it ever had been, wasn’t it? It wasn’t like they did any of the things other couples did, except occasionally eat dinner and go to the movie theatre together. Well, there was that one Thursday they went skating. The late night gaming sessions Tim had lured Tony into. And that weekend they’d spent their precious days off at the Rocketbelt convention in Niagara Falls. But they talked about their dates (or, Tony talked about his dates. Tim listened.) And checked out women together, sometimes men. They’d never said they were anything more than fuck-buddies. 

Yet no matter how hard he tried to tell himself he didn’t care one way or the other that it was over, his physical response betrayed him. His head pounded and his throat constricted. He felt sick to his stomach. He could only foresee more of that in his future if Tony spent longer than a few minutes looking like he’d rather be anywhere but in his presence. If they were going to end it, he wanted it to be on good terms, not anger and resentment. Like Tony, he wanted to know they’d still be friends.

“This mandarin duck tastes good,” he said after seven minutes of sustained silence. 

“I’m happy for you, McGastronomy,” Tony replied acidly, loading his fork.

“You know what’s better than mandarin duck?” Tim asked with a calculated, falsely innocent widening of his eyes. “Bittersweet break-up sex.”

Tony rolled his head around in what looked uncannily like exasperation. “You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said, have you?”

“You know, I have, but it’s like they were in C++ and I only know BASIC.”

“I have no idea what you just said.”

“Think Italian and English. Or Italian and Irish American. What do you say, Tony? One more for the road?”

Tony’s eyes flickered and Tim thought for a moment that he was about to say no, which would be disappointing, but judging by Tony’s spreading smile, he’d already achieved what he wanted to in regards to squaring things between them. 

“How quickly can you finish your food?”

“I’m already full.”

They split the cheque and Tony drove them to Tim’s apartment. They’d barely shut the door when Tim took Tony’s arm and dragged him into the bedroom as Tony kicked his shoes and socks off. He pushed him onto the bed and climbed on top, legs tight around Tony’s sides as he undid his shirt buttons. Tim was careful to loosen Tony’s tie but keep it around his neck as he extracted his shirt, throwing it to the far side of the room. He used the tie to drag Tony up to meet his kiss, then slid further down his body so he could rid him of his pants. 

Tony was naked save for the tie in around a minute and Tim took advantage of that, kissing a trail over his body and smiling mischievously after using soft bites in strategic places and eliciting throaty groans. 

“Stay,” he said, close to Tony’s ear, then stripped off his own clothes, placing them carefully on his dresser. 

Tony looked up at him through lowered lashes and Tim didn’t have the self control not to climb back on top of him and kiss him hard, winding the tie around his knuckles as he nipped at Tony’s jaw. Tony shifted underneath him, and Tim thought for a second he was going to try and turn the tables, so he gripped tighter and made a warning sound. Tony stopped, looked at him, started to smirk. Tim continued kissing him before moving so that he was gliding the tip of his tongue down his neck and over his torso. He sucked Tony’s nipples and looked up with satisfaction as Tony gave a low moan. 

Tim grabbed the lube and condoms in his nightstand, taking a deep breath as he snapped the cap off the lube and drizzled it between his fingers and thumb. He shuffled close up to Tony and widened the spread of his legs, propping one over his shoulder. 

“Wouldn’t this be easier the other way? I mean, I’m not getting any younger here. I’m not as limber as I once was. I totally hate that I’m confessing this, but, it’s true.”

“I wanna watch your face as I fuck you for the last time,” Tim replied, matter-of-factly. “You got a problem with that?” he asked as an afterthought. 

“No. I thought I did, but it turns out I really don’t,” Tony said, voice breathy as Tim slowly began to slide his thumb into him.

He bit his lower lip as he concentrated on working Tony open. Each time he looked at his face, Tony’s eyes were fixated on his mouth. His cheeks were flushed and sweat had started to form along his brow, tiny droplets that glistened in lamplight. He looked hot, in more ways than one, and Tim had a strong sense of regret for a moment that swept him up and flung him back down onto the bed with a violent shake. Tony was never his anyway, so what was the point in lamenting that he wouldn’t be his in the future?

Tim knew Tony was ready when he started raising his hips, making pleading, broken noises of anticipation. He nudged his cock against Tony’s hole and watched his expression as he entered, taking it slow and easy, a little too slow just to make this last. Tony’s breathing changed from slow and laboured to quick and shallow and Tim matched him as he pushed deep. 

Tony’s eyes were wide, his pupils large and black as Tim pulled back and surged forward again. He let out another moan, lips parted, and Tim wished he could hold this moment forever, being in the tight and the heat and the need of Tony’s gaze. He sped up his movements, clutched at Tony’s legs as he thrust harder, wanted to kiss Tony, but didn’t think he had the strength. 

He pulled on the end of Tony’s tie and edged him closer, touching their lips together chastely while shoving forward hard. His heart thumped loud in his ears, his whole body felt hot, and he knew that if he kept doing this --- if he just kept thrusting --- if he was just, maybe, a little harder... 

Tony came between them, screwing his eyes shut and breathing erratically. He tightened around Tim until he was too tight, almost painful, Tim swore he’d never felt anything like it, and he followed him into orgasm, shuddering as he came, muscles weakening until he could do nothing but collapse into a sticky heap atop Tony. 

He rested his eyes for a few minutes before disentangling himself and cleaning himself and Tony up. He gently undid the knot on the tie and pulled it away from Tony’s neck. He flopped back onto the bed when he was done, next to an already deeply breathing, probably asleep Tony. But no, he wasn’t asleep. He moved down the bed and curled himself around Tim, using his stomach as a pillow. 

“Tony? What are you doing?”

“You’re comfortable, Probie.” Tony licked him, then huffed out a sigh, the warm breath ghosting over Tim’s newly licked skin making him tingle. “And tasty.”

Tim rubbed his fingers through Tony’s damp hair, ruffling it up at the back. “Remember that next time you taunt me for being spongy.”

“I like your sponginess.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I mean it.” Tony adjusted until he was looking up at Tim. “You know you’re adorable.”

Tim gazed up at the ceiling and willed himself not to sigh. Not adorable enough.

*

The car pulled to a stop and Tim stepped out, adjusting his glasses and locking the door. Dale City was already starting to creep him out. The place was split into neighbourhoods that all ended in the word ‘dale’, and each of the streets began with the first letter of the neighbourhood they were in. It was a manufactured town as opposed to one that naturally formed due to bountiful resources or lines of communication, or any of the not-entirely-natural methods that other towns grew by. It reminded him of SimCity, which was a joke he’d made to Tony on a previous mission once, only to have Tony frown at him and ask him what he was doing watching Jessica Alba without him. 

He’d thought about stealing a car, but settled on renting one instead, using his new identity for the first time for something more than buying groceries online. It wasn’t flashy, just a regular sedan that could get him from A to B. He’d wanted to disable the LoJack system, but decided he had no time. He’d left D.C as soon as possible, knowing he could never drive as fast as Ziva, for his own sense of safety and the fact he didn’t want to get arrested in the middle of a rescue mission. He no longer had a badge to flash.

Which made his task of locating Ziva even more difficult. He opted for pretending they were meant to be driving in convoy. He pulled out his wallet as he got to the service desk and showed the picture of them he’d photoshopped to match with his current appearance. 

“Hello,” he said, affecting the only accent he’d ever managed to successfully fake, a hybrid of Tom Baker and John Cleese. “I was wondering if you’ve seen my friend. We’re supposed to be travelling together, but I’m afraid I got frightfully lost.”

The guy behind the screen looked at him as if he were crazy, but Tim couldn’t tell if that was a reaction to his words or the way he’d said them. He slid the picture across the counter. 

“Yeah, she was here about an hour and a half ago. Didn’t seem to wanna wait around, though. Where’re you headed? You need a map?”

“What a splendid idea,” Tim said, giving a broad, cheerful grin and grabbing one of the maps on display. “She went toward Washington, yes?”

“Yeah, maybe. Could’ve been going anywhere, everyone leaves via Bayfield. But she was dressed like she was going to Shenandoah, wearing hiking boots and a backpack, y’know?”

“Oh, yes, of course. She said that we should use it as a meeting point, should I ever get lost. Honestly, apart from her complaints about my snoring, I don’t know why we didn’t go in the same car. Um, you couldn’t show me how to get there, could you?”

Three unnecessary minutes later, Tim was driving toward Shenandoah with hope in his heart and a twist in his stomach. 

*

Standing in the elevator, Tim started to count to a hundred and hoped that his face would clear by the time he got to eighty-five. He had to stop letting Gibbs’ brush-offs affect him. Had to learn to toughen up. Before the doors could close, Tony slipped through the gap. 

For a moment, Tim didn’t acknowledge Tony’s presence. Then he glanced at him, just to gauge his expression.

“You look like you need a hug,” Tony said in a mocking, irreverent way he often had, emphasis on certain words to give them undue importance. Tim had heard it enough times to know when it shielded genuine concern. 

“It’s fine. I’m overreacting. I know I’m overreacting,” Tim sighed, up to thirty-nine.

“You know he knows you’re a genius, don’t you? We’re all fully aware of how brilliant you are.”

Tim narrowed his eyes, flipped the switch. The elevator ground to a halt. He pushed Tony into the metal panelling and kissed him, let his hands roam over cotton, slide under his waistband. They hadn’t had any sexual contact for seven months --- so it was like playing a game for the first time in five years without the expansion packs --- felt different in all the wrong ways, but comfortingly familiar in others. Not nearly enough and too much at the same time. 

He pulled away, stared at the floor. Tony leaned closer and held him. 

Tony touched him way too much, all the time. It had taken him forever to learn not to pull away and flinch. It had taken even longer to learn not to touch Tony back. The contact always made Tim feel wanted and appreciated, when he spent hours wondering why he’d worked so hard to become a field agent, to get onto Gibbs’ team. He hated feeling like a screw-up and a failure, but he hated it even more when he was superfluous, invisible. At least when Tony was teasing him, he was there. 

“You are, Tim,” he said quietly, stroking the back of his head. 

One hundred.

*

Stern was dark-haired, tall and looked like he could kill him in two seconds, if he really wanted to. Tim said a silent prayer that Stern was supposedly on his side. Emma King, on the other hand, was short and blonde with porcelain features and a wispy figure. Tim wouldn’t be at all surprised if it would only take her a single second.

Tim thought Shenandoah was a weird place to want to meet a computer hacker, so he wasn’t at all surprised when he was blindfolded, bundled into a car, and driven somewhere else. It was a long journey, felt full of twists and turns. He listened carefully for any tell-tale signs of train tracks or airplanes; ambient noises he could use to recall where they might have taken him. Gibbs had told him to trust no one, so he wasn’t going to trust Stern, who spent the entire trip chattering inanely about the amphibious life found at Shenandoah. Tim was already starting to kind of hate the place. 

Finally, they pulled up and Tim was hauled onto his feet and up several flights of stairs. He lost count at eleven and could have kicked himself, but he was being propelled along at high speed and he wasn’t that much of a masochist. When he was allowed to see, Tim saw a brick-walled apartment that wasn’t all that dissimilar to his own. A towering shelving unit, a mixture of cheap and expensive furniture. It was filled with the kinds of details Tim had taken to cataloguing to help with his description of the crime scenes L.J Tibbs would investigate. His apartment didn’t come with Ian Stern and Emma King, however, both of them looking at him expectantly. 

“Your CV is very interesting, Mr McAuliffe,” King said in a high, nasal voice. “Do you have any proof to back up your claims?”

“I have some files,” Tim said carelessly, shrugging his left shoulder. “And I can show you.”

“Right now?”

“If you gimme a laptop, then yeah. Now’s good.”

The first task set for him was to hack into the CIA, which was easy because he’d practiced during the night --- having managed to sleep a total of sixty-seven minutes, give or take an hour. He yawned while he was doing it, which he figured probably made him look like a gigantic jackass, but also contributed to that whole confident, relaxed persona he was adopting. 

They then asked him to hack into the FBI, which was also yawn-inducing. Really, Tim was only stretched when they asked him to create his own trojan, because he could write his own viruses, he totally could, he just didn’t like it much. He always preferred killing other people’s nasty little gremlins than creating his own. 

“You’re good,” Jane King said with a tone of wonderment in her voice and Tim smirked because he wanted to, but also because it was in line with his character. “How come you don’t work for the government?”

“They don’t exactly appreciate how I use my skills,” Tim said, raising his eyebrow. “I’ve stolen a few hundred thousand dollars here and there. Launched DDoS attacks at their sites. They’re not huge fans.”

“I’m surprised they haven’t tried to recruit you.”

“They did. I refused. I’m not gonna answer to the man when I can enjoy myself more fucking him over.”

Tim was fairly sure he was giving this an eleven when he only needed an eight, but, well, now he was here in the role, playing the part was kind of fun. 

“You don’t approve of the government, I take it?” Stern asked, giving him a brief, but intent look that Tim took to mean he should dial it down a notch. He decided to go the other way.

“No, they’re a bunch of pussies. Can’t even get a little thing like nuking our enemies right. C’mon.”

King smiled at Tim. “I’ve got some people I’d love to introduce you to,” she said, patting him delicately on the shoulder.

“Do they pay?” he asked, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. 

“A lot, if the product’s right.”

“They sound like my kind of people.”

Another blindfold, another journey, this time trying to answer a barrage of questions as well as listen intently for useful sounds. He had little to no success when it came to plotting where they might be when they slowed to a stop and he was walked down some stairs this time. Except underground. The metallic echo and the cold told him that.

Tim’s kind of people were absolutely nothing like the one King introduced him to. All of his internal alarms buzzed, rang and clattered when George Campbell shook his hand and nearly crushed it into a fine powder. He was older than Tim expected, steel blue eyes brought into sharp relief by the grey at his temples. He was all muscle and not afraid to show it off.

“You’re the new whizkid?”

Tim raised his eyebrows. “New whizkid?”

“As opposed to the dead one.”

Tim allowed himself to swallow dramatically, because he reckoned that’s what Terry McAuliffe would do. “How’d he die?”

“That’s not important. What’s important is if you can do what we want, no questions asked. So far, you’re already failing.”

Emma King stepped forward. “He’s exactly what you need. Moral compass headed south and his abilities are breathtaking.”

Tim gave a sly smile that he maintained through a particularly Gibbs-like glare from Campbell. 

“I don’t know much about what constitutes breathtaking in the computer world. So long as you can get weapons shipped where we want, I guess you can stay.”

Campbell told Stern and King to go back home, so they did, neither of them giving a backwards glance as they left him standing there like a moron. Tim was surprised that it was all happening so quickly and he had a few minutes of dread as he pictured being sliced and diced by Campbell’s bayonet. He hadn’t seen a bayonet, but he wouldn’t be surprised if there was one stashed just out of sight. 

“Emma trusts you, so I’m gonna trust you, but don’t think for a second I won’t kill you where you stand if it turns out you ain’t the real deal,” Campbell said conversationally. “I expect you want the tour.”

Tim’s first reaction to the compound was to think it looked like something out of a movie. Though he couldn’t decide if it was more Day of the Dead or The Presidio His second reaction was to think he’d clearly spent way too much time with Tony. It was obviously more Wolfenstein 3D. 

There were several storage areas, each looking much the same as the other. A large room with maps on three trestle tables, two couches and a shelf of books. A kitchen that was so tidy it looked like it was never used and a gigantic pantry full of supplies. In the event of nuclear war, Tim thought they’d probably be set.

He was led to a narrow hallway with doors lining either side, the electric hum of technology calming his fraught nerves. 

“If you’re anything like the last one, you want a little play. I’ll see you here again at fourteen hundred. You know what time that is, don’t you?” 

“Yes, Sir,” Tim said automatically, with only a hint of sarcasm. 

Campbell gestured to a door on the left and Tim opened it, walked through, only to be greeted by an impressive looking supercomputer; what appeared, with first glance, to be a Power 575, p6 4.7 GHz, Infiniband. It was no Jaguar, but it was powerful. There was a door leading to the next room and in there was a hub of networked computers, two or three widescreen monitors each.

Tim’s eyes widened. This group wanted to do a hell of a lot more than reroute weapons. 

*

Tim had been refusing to answer all of Tony’s questions, but he’d still managed to find out about Tammy; enough to know which questions to ask. He fired them across the table of the coffee shop the same way he conducted interrogations, casual one second, intense the next.

“Now you’ve told me about Tambourine Tamara. Tell me, what’s Abby like?”

“You know. You’ve worked with her longer than I have. She’s... Abby.”

Tony took a sip of coffee, glanced at a nearby waitress, presumably to see if she was bringing their pie, or to check her out. “I meant in bed.”

“You mean coffin. And I’m not telling you. I never will tell you. And I sincerely wish you’d stop asking.”

“She’s kinky, right? A little bit rough? I noticed how much you liked that.”

Tim smiled. Couldn’t stop himself. He enjoyed Tony too much to deny it any more. He sometimes had the urge still to lean forward and kiss him, shock him into silence with more than innuendo. But it wouldn’t be worth the ‘we can’t’ expression on Tony’s face, that hint of regret and tension that hung between them. Better to be friends. And that wasn’t settling so much as acceptance. 

Which wasn’t to say he was going to tell Tony about his past love-life. He’d learned early on that kissing and telling only led to tears. Sometimes his. He still winced when he remembered one particular kick. Also, he still felt weird about never having told Abby about Tony (because, out of anyone at work, Abby would probably have been standing alongside them with pom-poms and cheering their non-heteronormativity, loudly, with maybe some bells and whistles. It was her thing.) Whenever he thought about their relationship, it haunted him. He hated the thought that he’d been cheating on her, that he’d always had the capacity to hurt her by omission. 

“You would have to do amazing things to get me to divulge any of that information.” 

“It might worry you to know I like the sound of that.”

Tim had some of his own cream-heavy coffee, the main vice he hadn’t yet managed to purge from his diet. 

He looked Tony in the eye. “Nothing in your field of expertise.”

*

He came into the park via the Swift entrance. He figured that was where Ziva would have entered. The quickest route was the easiest. A vehicle that looked suspiciously like a company car was parked haphazardly in the parking lot. He had a quick look at the interior, but didn’t see anything that would give him further clues as to whether Ziva had been driving, or where she might have gone if she had. 

He played the bewildered British tourist act at the information centre, but no one recognised her. He didn’t start crying, although he was tempted. There were over five hundred miles of trails to cover, and knowing Ziva, she wasn’t on any one of them. 

Okay, he could do this. He’d been training most of his life for this very task. Maybe not this very task, but something similar. He just had to think. And remember. He started on a trek toward Doyle’s River Overlook as he worked on doing both of those things.

What he remembered did not exactly inspire him with confidence that he had any right being out of the safe house, because he was clearly too stupid to function properly in the real world. He had never checked whether Ziva was still using her phone. He hadn’t even checked her GPS signal. He’d checked Tony’s. Then Gibbs’. He’d gone through their financial records, intending to check Ziva’s phone later, but he’d been distracted by discovering the other two had stopped using their cards. Panic had prevented him from thinking straight.

Tim dialled Ziva’s number, breath caught in his throat as he prayed she’d answer. He almost fell over in shock when her voice came clear through the speaker.

“Who is this?”

“Ziva, it’s McGee.”

“McGee’s dead. Tony, is this you? Your impersonation has improved, but perhaps it is foolish to joke around under the circumstances?”

“Ziva, it’s really me. We faked my death. What are the circumstances?”

Ziva’s voice rose in pitch. “Tim? Is that really you?”

“Yes, Ziva. I’ll repeat this one more time --- what’s going on?”

“Tony went to find George Campbell to exact revenge. We think he may be being held against his wishes.”

Tim’s heart stopped, but his confusion reigned over his emotions. “Why Shenandoah?”

“It’s where Campbell’s complex is.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Ziva was insistent and indignant in equal measure. “It is!”

“I think the public would know if there were a military compound somewhere in Shenandoah National Park, don’t you?”

“It is not in, it is under, McGee,” Ziva said sharply, then her tone softened. “I’m happy you’re not dead.”

“I’m happy I’m gonna see you soon, Ziva. Can you send me your co-ordinates?”

“I think it would be better if I sent you the co-ordinates to the compound. I am still over fifty miles away. I estimate Gibbs is forty miles away. He left before Abby could tell him she finally managed to accurately pin-point your hacking activity and he has been searching for a while. ”

“He didn’t have his phone,” Tim said, hoping at the last second it sounded like a question. 

“No. Neither of these missions was approved by Director Vance. Gibbs left without authorisation and did not want the Director contacting him. He called in with a burn phone.”

“That sounds about right.”

“If you know I am in Shenandoah, does that mean you are here too?”

Tim nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see him. “Yeah, I’m here. Nice parking, by the way.”

“I do not think parking is important when the life of an NCIS agent is at stake.”

“Or when there’s coffee to be bought? Movies to go see?”

“McGee, I really am happy you are still alive, Tony has been unbearable without you. But do not think I will not kick you, hard, when we finally see each other again, simply because of some sense of sentimentality.”

Tim grinned and meant it for the first time in a long time. “Life has been unbearable without you guys, Ziva.”

Ziva sounded confused, surprised. “Really? You did not find it liberating?”

“If I had, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

“What are you doing here right now, McGee?”

“Can we make a promise we’ll tell each other everything once this is over?”

“Yes, of course. See you soon, I hope.”

There was a click and Tim stared at his phone as if he could transmit well-wishes and love. Adrenaline surged through him as he looked at the co-ordinates and headed off in the right direction. He was only twenty miles from the destination, whether it was a military compound or not. His heart pounded double-time in his chest, blood rushed through his ears. The team was going to be reunited.

He had to trust that Tony was all right, that everything was going to be okay, but he reflexively checked his weaponry. If he knew anything about George Campbell, it was that he wasn’t going down without a fight.

*

He hadn’t been in his position for a while, wriggling underneath Tony, back against the floor. It was startlingly familiar, his senses flaring memories that had him breathing erratically. The only difference now was that Tony was punching him, and squeezing his sides, and trying to smash his head into the floorboards, as opposed to kissing down his body, using his fingers to excite and entice. He kicked and snarled, started to gnaw on Tony’s arm to shake him off. He wondered how they’d gotten to this point, right here.

It started with them being stuck on stakeout together in a tiny room. Tony was concentrating on all of his worst habits, because he did that when he was going through something he didn’t want to talk about. He reverted back to a base template of obnoxiousness. And Tim was sick of wearing kid gloves around him, having to defer to his bad temper. But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t the whole truth. The obnoxiousness was the symptom, not the cause. 

Tim gave one final kick, hard, knee connecting with something soft and squidgy, and Tony made a sound like a beached whale, rolled off to the side. 

“Ow. Ow, ow, ow. I’m gonna tell papa bear,” Tony whined.

Tim’s chest heaved and he coughed a couple of times. “Yeah? You think he’ll punish me? After Abby, I’m his favourite.”

“That is patently untrue, McBrown-nose.”

“What, you think he likes you more, DiNozzo?”

“I’d like to think he hates us all equally.”

Tim sucked in another breath and propped himself up on his elbow. He looked down at Tony, mentally traced his lines and battle scars.

“Look, you’ve been acting like a total jerk.”

“Are you aware your tone completely contradicts your words?”

“Do you wanna talk about it? 

“No. I do not want to talk about it. If I wanted to talk about it, I would. You couldn’t get me to stop talking about it.”

“So what, you’ll push everyone away until they don’t care that you’re in pain?”

Tony scoffed. He snickered. “Who said anything about pain?”

“You’re forgetting how well I know you.”

“Probie, you don’t know me at all. Now help me up, before I give you another smack.”

Tim had to get back onto his own feet before he could help Tony back onto his, and by the time that was done, he was feeling sore and tired. 

He didn’t expect the attack. He was barrelled into the wall and held there.

“You know what I want? Less talk, more action.”

Tim thought for a happy minute that meant he’d be writhing on the floor for entirely good reasons, but then Tony punched him hard on one of his pressure points, trying to give him a dead arm, and he knew it was wishful thinking. Tony didn’t want to work through his issues. He wanted to fight. Tim could help with that.

*

This was the part no one had told Tim about. When Fornell had said he’d sort everything out, he’d thought he’d been talking about accommodation and clothes, expenses. That Stern would slip him a note or a text message on his phone. Not that he would be trapped in an underground lair with six men who fancied themselves soldiers and clearly lived in their own fantasy version of the real world. 

A week had gone by and Tim was adjusting to the new turn in his life, but not particularly enjoying it. Fornell had been wrong about these guys. Most of them were passionate about the cause. It was all they ever talked about. An idealised United States of America where existence could be simple again. Home-made lemonade and freshly baked apple pie. Family values and living the suburban dream. Tim didn’t have the heart to tell them it was a fallacy. That it didn’t matter the decade, there was always a war. That as long as there were systems in place to keep people oppressed, there would always be those willing to die for their cause. 

He’d had a little too much time to think. The main contents of his thoughts had been surrounding the idea that the base really was going to be overrun by zombies. And he would start the revolution. 

Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t busy, because he was. If Campbell wasn’t asking him to do something next to impossible, then Peter Tulloch, the youngest of the group, was asking him to do something mundane. Tulloch was a little bit obsessed with his technical skills, and Tim sincerely hoped it wouldn’t progress beyond that. He wasn’t allowing himself to become friends with these men. He didn’t think it would be in character and it would make the ultimate conviction of them feel like betrayal, when he was only going to uphold his duty. 

John Corden was okay, most of the time. He wasn’t as cut-throat as the others. Whenever Bryce Tucker and Sam Anderson talked about the bombings they wanted to conduct, Corden was the first to suggest ways in which they could minimise or escape civilian casualties. (One evening, Anderson had frothed at the mouth and said the casualties were the point --- that to create fear, they needed to strike at the hearts and minds of men, force them to see the dangers lurking in the shadows. Corden had laughed and diffused the situation by quoting The Simpsons. “No TV and no beer make Anderson something, something.”) Walter Reyne reminded Tim of Tony sometimes, because he talked about his many and varied conquests in bed. In graphic detail. Occasionally with diagrams. Or re-enactments. 

Of them all, Tulloch was the most likeable, even as he could be the most frustrating. He wanted to know Tim, to understand everything he did, and he had an infectious enthusiasm that Tim thought could have been valuable had it not been misplaced. He’d had a rough childhood, spoke about his mother’s death like it hit him hard, and Tim had to counsel himself not to take the kid under his wing and try and save him from his situation.

Two weeks passed before he could say with any certainty what he was doing there. He had a horrible feeling Campbell was going to tell him to hack into the military defence system and bomb Russia, necessitating a discussion where Tim would have to explain that the computers that had anything to do with launching nuclear missiles weren’t accessible via the internet, otherwise, there would already be no Russia left. But it turned out Campbell was much more interested in causing civil unrest and blaming it on the Harakat ul-Mujahidin.

He was asked to hack into traffic control systems in various state capitals, launch DDoS attacks on the internet banking sites of several major banks, and hack SCADA computer systems, setting off civil defence sirens and redistributing electrical power. He made sure it was easy to back trace his connection, but only so far. He’d bounced his IP address around the world, but made it seem like it started and ended in Pakistan.

In the meantime, Campbell’s army looked like they were gearing for war. They pumped iron every day, sometimes went on ‘missions’. Tim had wandered into one room by accident and seen one of Tucker’s home-made bombs. He was really hoping the intel he had was going to bring Campbell down. He’d been keeping evidence. Computer logs. Covert pictures. He didn’t know how long this was supposed to take. Until he had something concrete? He thought he had that, ten times over. 

Tim contacted Stern and waited for a signal. He had to hope he wouldn’t be trapped here forever. No one could survive for long in this kind of environment and keep their wits about them.


	3. His Need is Such, He Pretends Too Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim is forced to fake his own death and go into hiding. Meanwhile, he and Tony have been engaged in a relationship... of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim/Tony, allusions to Tim/Abby, Tony/Ziva. Title from the song ‘The Great Pretender.’

It had never occurred to Tim that he could miss someone so much his bones would ache with want for them. Like he hadn’t slept for weeks on end, because Tony was missing from his life. It didn’t seem right. He’d always taught himself to be fully self-sufficient. He’d learned to be happy in his own company when he’d had trouble conducting conversations (which hadn’t been shyness so much as an inability to think of anything to say; kids were cruel and he was scary smart, with emphasis on the scary. He’d never wanted to make them hate him because he was different, but apart from some of the other Webelos, he usually _was_.) He’d gotten to the point where he’d imitate Tony to himself in the shower, chat with his shadow against the tiles. The postcards were never enough; a few scrawled words on the back of an admittedly glamorous picture of a ship. It was the first time Tim would admit to himself he had feelings that went beyond friendship and veered into something harder to define.

Setting up the video link, he buzzed with tightly-wound energy. He was cashing in a favour he should have held onto. He would ordinarily keep the ‘get out of jail free’ cards until he desperately needed to use them, eat the tastiest parts of a meal last. He was used to hoarding and showing great patience in order to do so. But this time, when Director Vance had suggested he should be paid for his silence, it had been an almost immediate request. Almost, because he’d asked for himself, Tony and Ziva to return to Gibbs’ team first.

Tony’s face appeared on screen just as Tim attached his headset. He smiled and waved, only a short movement, not too fast.

“Hi, Tony. Can you hear me?”

“I hear a disembodied voice, as if from beyond the grave.”

Tim stared worriedly at the screen. “No visual? Wait a second.” He adjusted some settings. “Is this any better?”

“Probie-wan Kenobi, you’re there, you’re square, you’re the fairest of them all,” Tony said triumphantly, his grin manic. Tim felt his stomach flutter and out of view of the camera, tightened his fist until his knuckles began turning white.

He kept his voice steady as he looked up at Tony on the screen. “How are you?”

“I’m trapped in the middle of the big blue sea, Timmy, how do you think I am?”

“At least you don’t get seasick.”

“True. I am surviving far better than you ever could. Not that this is a surprise.” Tony smirked, then narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion. “Is this merely a courtesy call, or is there a deeper purpose I need to divine?”

“Courtesy. Kind of. I wanted to assure you we haven’t completely forgotten about you.”

“I know. I had a chat with Gibbs two days ago.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he sends his regards. Says he would come and visit you, but he doesn’t want to get lost in the labyrinthine depths in which you now reside. Maybe he has something against skin-tight pants and goblins, I don’t know.”

Tim frowned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“How is Cyber Unit, anyway?”

“Not nearly as cool as it sounds.”

Tony rocked back on his chair, moving further away from the screen, as if trying to dodge a punch. “That’s disturbing, because it sounds majorly nerdtastic. Positively poindexter.”

“You’re a smartass, DiNozzo.”

“You love it.”

Tim shook his head, scrunched his nose. “You wish. I’ll admit it’s boring without you, though. People are actually civil, do pleasant things for each other, it’s sorta sickening.”

“I don’t think you’re getting enough vitamin D in that dungeon of yours. You may want to do something about that. It’s making you nasty. And not in the dirty, sexy way.”

There was a loud shout from behind Tony and he turned around to see what it was. Tim listened intently, turning up the volume a fraction.

“Why’s there a guy shouting in Portuguese?”

“That’s just Amancio. He fell over, but Chad helped him up.” Tony affected a bad English accent. “Living in such close quarters one grows accustomed to such disturbances.” He switched back to his real voice. “How did you know that was Portuguese instead of Spanish?”

“I used to live next door to a Portuguese family. My friend Gil taught me all of those words. And then some.”

“You used to live next door to a Portuguese family? In which universe?” Tony asked, expressive in surprise.

“When my family was stationed in Alameda.”

Tony bounced around in his chair. “You were stationed in Alameda? Can you tell us where the nuclear wessels are? “

Tim raised an eyebrow. “And you say I’m the geek.”

“That’s because you are, Macgyver.”

“Wow. That was not one of your finest.”

“I know. I think it’s all this stale air, stifling my creativity. You would know what that’s like, cooped up every weekend, tip-tap-typing and playing your little games.”

Tim smiled --- a surprisingly genuine smile. He’d been aiming for sarcasm.

“I only have another three minutes here, are you sure there wasn’t anything you needed to say?” Tony queried, looking concerned.

“Yeah, I think I may be with child. And Tony? It’s yours,” Tim said rolling his eyes. “If I had anything important to tell you, I already would have. There’s no word yet on when or if you’re coming home. I’m still assigned to Cyber Unit. I spoke with Ziva the other day, she seems active. And Abby tells me Gibbs is as Gibbs-like as ever. But I guess you’d already know that.”

“So you really did call to say you love me,” Tony said, looking smug.

“Or something thereabouts.”

“I miss you, Tim,” Tony said, quieter now. “I’m never alone here, but I feel the loneliest I’ve ever felt.”

“I know what you mean. But as long as you have your DVD collection, you’ll stay sane, right?”

“I could only fit twenty discs. I sacrificed _Live and Let Die_. I love that film. Roger Moore in quasi-Blaxploitation? It’s amazing.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Tim said, he looked at his watch, urged himself not to sigh. “I guess our time is up.”

“Seems that way. I’ll send you another postcard. Something pretty this time. The ship, perhaps? Shown from an attractive vantage point?”

“Thanks, I’d like that,” Tim said with a farewell smile. “See you, Tony.”

The connection was cut and Tim left MTAC and travelled all the way back to Cyber Unit, keeping a lid on his emotions as he did so. He wasn’t going to break down in public, it wasn’t his style, and besides, there was no need for him to break down, because there was nothing wrong. He wasn’t feeling worse after having spoken to Tony and this was not pain he was experiencing. Everything was as it should be.

The lies weren’t enough. He didn’t have enough conviction to carry them through. Because Tony was right. Yet again, Tony had to be right. Tim had called Tony to say he loved him. Not in those words, not even close. But the sentiment, definitely.

Arriving at Cyber Unit just in time he groaned, flopped onto his chair, banged his head into his desk. He was sure Tony was not a man to be fallen in love with, not unless masochism was a trait that was to be valued and encouraged in his life.

“You okay, Boss?” Hal asked, squeaky-voiced and terrified.

“I’m fine,” Tim returned. He scowled with the right amount of warning menace. “Get back to work.”

*

It took longer than he expected to get to the co-ordinates Ziva had given him, but while he was there, he scanned the area carefully. There was a Ranger’s hut that looked disused, cracked windows and plants nearby growing over and around the trail leading to the door. He noticed a grouping of snapped twigs, which was more amateur than he would have expected of Campbell’s men.

He tentatively opened the door to the shack, half-expecting sirens to begin blaring and lights to flash, but if there was an alarm, it was silent. The inside of the hut was covered in dust and cobwebs, inbuilt and nailed down furniture looking worse for wear. It looked like the place had been abandoned for years, if not going on decades. There was a familiar scent in the ramshackle room that had Tim thinking Ziva wasn’t as crazy as she sounded. A unique fragrance of wood and weedkiller that he’d smelt when he’d been taken to the compound by Ian Stern and Emma King.

He began examining everything closely, moving what he could. The shack creaked and moaned in the process, like a bullied kid against its tormentor, and Tim didn’t need more than second to figure out why that simile had come to him. He noticed that a small end table wasn’t bolted into the floor and some tell-tale scrapes alongside it, small indentations in the wood visible just at the edge of a vile-looking rug. He pulled the table backward towards the window. Even now he had more muscle, it was difficult; a heavy piece of furniture he guessed usually took more than one man, or a lot more time than he wanted to expend. Once there was enough room, he lifted up part of the patchy dirt-clogged rug and found what he’d been searching for --- a handle to a trapdoor.

Lifting the trapdoor took effort, and Tim wasn’t certain he’d have accomplished it at one time, was gratified he could manage it now. When he’d raised it high enough, he squinted inside and saw a couple of steps descending into darkness. He took those few steps and travelled deeper underground, feeling the wall, and instead of stone like he expected, feeling metal that was cool to the point of feeling damp. The sounds of his footsteps echoed with a metallic edge that was distinctly familiar, although part of that might have been him remembering Gibbs’ conference room. Huh. So there was a secret military compound hidden in Shenandoah National Park. He’d seen and done some crazy things in his time on Gibbs’ team, so he really shouldn’t be as surprised as he was, but he couldn’t help it, he was a natural sceptic. Whenever events in his life took a turn toward fantasy, he consoled himself that he wasn’t the first person to notice that reality was stranger than fiction.

He finally hit what felt like ‘ground floor’, where light from a door at the end of the passageway gave him an indication of where he was. His eyes had slowly been adjusting and he could see much clearer now; the metal panelling that months before he had thought reminded him of being in a submarine, the claustrophobic tightness of the space. He held his gun steady as he edged along, as quick and quiet as possible.

The first room he entered was virtually empty, a storage area he’d been in once, or presumably more than that, although he didn’t remember his escape. The door was concealed by a clever placement of packing crates, but still accessible. He’d tried, more than once, to find this, but there were five more rooms that were the same, three of which having doors that lead to other sections of the compound.

At the side of this room was access to another hallway, with four doors leading off from that. Two of those doors led to further empty rooms; including a makeshift laundry, and the others to two further corridors that eventually came to the bunks, further storage rooms, what he’d ironically called the rec room, and his computer laboratory. This, he knew. Had paced those floors, had banged his head against those walls. He was in his element again.

There was the sound of voices from the direction of the rec room. He recognised Campbell’s low tones, but couldn’t hear what he was saying. He shuffled closer, cautious and watchful, finger ready by the trigger.

A higher-pitched voice was talking now, Reyne, he thought. He could just make out the words.

“... don’t have any idea how much his friends know. Why’d he come here all alone if they got all the information? I’m telling ya, dead men can’t talk.”

“You don’t think it would be better to push forward our relocation and say goodbye? This place is an empty shell, a dead end. They already know our identities, thanks to McAuliffe. All they need is where we are,” Corden reasoned.

“So why not kill?” Campbell asked.

“We could point them to the wrong place. Leave erroneous clues.”

Tim nodded to himself. He liked that idea. That gave him ample time and opportunity to find Tony and rescue him. It wouldn’t be easy, but he already had half-formed notions of how he’d do it.

“What’s the plan? We stage whisper that we’re going to Florida and then let him escape?”

“I was thinking subtler than that. If we left, he’d realise we’d gone eventually, go through the books, look on the computers, bring his team down to examine everything, and that’s where the trail to Florida, or Texas, or wherever the hell we want, would be. They’d be so busy chasing those leads, they’d have no idea we’d gone the opposite direction. That gives us more time to get our engine running smoothly.”

“He speaks sense,” Reyne grudgingly admitted.

There was a long pause and then Campbell spoke. “Yeah, you do, Corden, but I don’t think we should have to run. Reyne’s got a point; why’d he come here alone? This guy ain’t got no back up. He’s a mess. Tucker, go get DiNozzo. We end this now.”

Tim seriously contemplated screaming out in anguish, but he beat a hasty retreat instead, thinking it unlikely anyone would look in the server room. What he needed to do was grab a pair of the night-vision goggles he hoped were still stashed away in one of the storage room crates. Next, create a power surge that would cause the generators to crash. And then it was just a matter of knocking Campbell’s team out before they could get mobile with their own night-vision goggles, and snatching Tony away to safety. It would be a piece of cake. Nothing could go wrong.

*

He wasn’t supposed to be spending his weekends on the internet. He’d given himself a list of things he would not spend his entire weekend doing, and ‘declaring people wrong on the internet’ was close to the top (under ‘obsessively shredding paper’, ‘working’ , and ‘jerking off’.) But then he’d met Claire, who was a level five sorceress, and seemed to know the exact right things to say, and clearly knew him far too well to not be someone he actually knew. Of everyone he did know, there were only two people who would go to the lengths ‘Claire’ had gone to yank his chain, and Abby was off helping Habitat for Humanity. (Which Tim had offered to go do, but there’d been that incident with the mortar, and Abby never wanted his assistance nowadays --- which he’d be indignant about, but, hey, more weekend for him.) Tony was up to something nefarious, and Tim was going to play along until he figured out what it was.

He enjoyed pretending to be oblivious. He was a little worried he’d started off too strong by discussing his meeting Claire as soon as he arrived at work, but if Tony was aware that he was under no illusions, he didn’t say anything. Tim wasn’t surprised when Tony told Ziva that Claire was a fabrication, although he was increasingly curious as to his motivation. He played the innocent for everyone until Ziva told him about the practical joke, and then continued playing the innocent for Tony, and Tony didn’t suspect a thing until they were sat next to each other at long past midnight, a week after Tim had been surreptitiously extorting and emotionally blackmailing him into handing over free lunches and dinners.

Tony was looking longingly at the last of the kung pao chicken, a desperate gleam to his eye. He leaned forward in his chair, balancing on his toes, centre of balance off-kilter.

“I have a confession!” he said in a rush, words spilling over themselves in the speed they were ejected from his mouth.

“You’re Claire,” Tim replied without a beat, but with a smirk.

“ _Ziva_ ,” Tony intoned, eyes narrowing.

“Yes, but I already knew. If you wanted to get back into my pants, why not just tell me? Why the elaborate ruse?”

Tony’s eyebrows shot high into his hairline. “I... that wasn’t... you’re being _very forward_ , McGee. Shh!”

Tim prevented himself from snickering. “Then what was the point?”

“I get bored! No, that’s not it,” Tony hurriedly grabbed for the chicken and Tim didn’t bother to stop him. “You’ve looked lonely lately. I thought I could cheer you up with sparkling conversation of a fascinating calibre.”

“But you couldn’t do it as you.”

“No. The ship kind of sailed on that one. And then sunk, like the Titanic, but with less violin and frozen DiCaprio.”

Tim shook his head in confusion. “Let me get this straight. You thought I looked lonely so your immediate reaction was to cause me public humiliation? I don’t believe you. Even you would not think that’s a great idea.”

Tony chewed at him noisily. “Even me?” he said between bites. “I take offense.” He stared up at the ceiling, gaze fixed as he spoke. “Look, I wanted to recreate that moment when you first meet someone and you’re testing them out. The tentative shuffle forward, the innuendo-laden banter. I wanted to flirt and tease, experience the thrill of the unknown with you. Those early moments in a relationship where uncertainty is an exciting potential and not a warning beacon.”

“We never had that,” Tim said blankly.

“Exactly.”

“I’m still not seeing the practical joke angle.”

“I knew Ziva would tell you, eventually. I guess I expected you to confront me when you did. With more hysteria and less self-assurance.”

Tim leaned back in his chair, propped his legs on Tony’s desk. “You didn’t know?”

“That you knew? No, you great big faker. You’ve clearly been taking classes in duplicity. This upsets me greatly.”

“No, you didn’t know what you expected?”

“I never know what to expect with you. Whenever I think I finally have you all figured out, you go and change the rules.”

Tim thought he could have said the exact same thing back to Tony, and almost did, but Tony stood up, dragging his jacket on.

“It’s late and I need to have my beauty rest. No hard feelings?”

“I guess not.”

“Great. I shall see you tomorrow. Well, today. Later. Bye, McMendacious.”

Tim watched Tony’s retreating back and tried to decide if he was glad they’d had this conversation. As soon as one question was answered, three more sprang in its place, like the hydra of mixed signals and confusion. Tony wanted to flirt with him, but didn’t feel capable as himself because their ship was at the bottom of the sea? So should he flirt with Tony more now, or prove to him their boat was a submarine and could easily resurface? Or was he reading too much into all of this, should be wary of believing Tony because he had reprehensible motives, another joke lurking around the corner?

There was one thing Tim knew for certain. This little chat with Tony marked the end of scamming free food. He sighed and looked sadly at the empty container. It was probably of benefit to his diet, but it brought great sadness to his stomach.

*

“Can you hack into other people’s emails?” Tulloch asked, swinging about on the chair that Tim had contemplated wasting some PETN on.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On all kinds of things. Whether the email’s through a free service like gmail or not, how strong their password is, if I can piggyback government channels. It can be a matter of seconds, or it can take hours, or it can be close to impossible. It depends.”

Tulloch did a full 360 degree turn. “Could you hack into my ex-girlfriend’s and send a virus to all her skanky friends?”

Tim flexed his hand and cracked his knuckles. “I probably _could_ , but I’m busy right now, Tulloch. Don’t you have something better to do?”

Tulloch gave him a look that was on par with a shamed puppy, and Tim rolled his eyes to the heavens and prayed to hell he’d be given some peace and quiet soon.

The opposite occurred. There were several guttural shouts, none of which were clear enough for Tim to hear the specific words, and then heavy footfall running down the passage toward the computer room. It sounded like three or four men coming, and if Tim had to classify the sound they made as an emotion, he’d go with ‘angry’. In a swift move, Tulloch pushed an object under his jacket and slipped a pill into his hand.

“Stay quiet and follow my lead, McGee,” he whispered.

“What’d you call me?”

“Do as you’re told.” Tulloch hurriedly glanced at the door. “After I smack you down, you’re gonna want to take the pill, so put it in your mouth now. It’ll knock you out. I’ll handle the rest.”

Tim did as he was told out of instinct, and before he could ask any further questions, Reyne, Tucker and Anderson appeared at the door, holding very large guns and looking at him like they wanted to kill.

“Get away from him, Petey. He isn’t who you think he is, isn’t that right, Special Agent McGee?”

Tim gaped up at Reyne. “I have no---” he began, but Tulloch shoved him to the ground, smacked him around the jaw.

“Special Agent?” he asked.

“Yeah, he’s a mole. In every sense of the word. A dee-sgusting, sewer-ridden rat,” Tucker sneered.

“Is it true, are you a traitor?” Tulloch yelled, his face going a convincing shade of beet-red.

“No, of course not, Tulloch, I don’t know what they’re talking about,” Tim replied, feeling blood rush to his head as Tulloch shook him.

Reyne stepped forward, threw his ID on the ground beside him. “How’d you explain this?”

Tulloch smacked him again and Tim started to cough. “It must be a fake.”

“No. Not a fake. We got that from your buddy Stern. After a lot of convincing, of course. We suspected someone was talking to the Feds, but we didn’t know who, or how. It turns out, Petey, that we’ve been under investigation from two federal organisations --- the FBI and NCIS.”

Tulloch hit Tim again, painfully hard. He glared at him with widened eyes, which Tim took as his cue to swallow. He didn’t know exactly what was going on, but he didn’t have many options. As far as killing him went, this would be a convoluted way to do it. Shooting or stabbing were the easier methods. He had to trust that Tulloch was on his side, even if he was beginning to see Tulloch wasn’t who he thought he was, in any way, shape or form. The pill was fast-acting and he began to feel faint straight away, the world spinning on its axis.

“You bastard, I trusted you,” Tulloch said with a guttural growl.

The last thing Tim remembered seeing was the barrel of a gun.

*

The game had been on for a torturous sixteen minutes when he asked himself why he’d allowed Tony to drag him to the court. He wasn’t anti-sports so much as profoundly uninterested in most of them. And basketball was included amongst those he did not get. He never quite knew all the rules and the ones he did know rarely seemed to make sense. He didn’t hate sitting in a room full of people barracking over trivialities, because he’d done enough of that at LAN parties, and wrestling matches, and Webelos meetings. He just couldn’t fake his own enthusiasm over the constant stop-start of basketball and Tony kept looking his way, to see if he was having fun, would nudge him to join in a chant or a clap, pouted at him between quarters and asked in a plaintive voice if everything was okay.

“I like it, I just don’t understand what’s going on,” Tim said when there was a lull in the action toward the end of the game, because Tony’s sad little glances were breaking his heart.

By the time they’d gotten back to Tony’s apartment, he had a solid working knowledge of the scoring system and substitutions and double dribbling. He soon discovered his apathy had little to do with ignorance, and an hour and a half later of listening to Tony’s recounts of his top ten games witnessed and top five games played in, Tim was close to clawing at the walls. He was beginning to understand the glazed eyes of the technologically crippled few he insisted on tutoring in basic computer literacy. He had to figure there was some kind of rule that stated if you had no interest or aptitude for a given topic, the probability of you wanting to punch a person discussing said topic ad nauseum approached one.

“It’s late, I should be heading home,” he said when Tony finally paused for breath.

“It’s way too late for you to be out on those roads, they’re treacherous at this hour. Sleep here.”

“I drive at night all the time, Tony. I think I can manage just fine,” Tim scoffed. Tony got that sad look in his eyes again and Tim worried at his bottom lip. “When you say sleep...”

“I mean sleep. I’ll take the couch.”

Tim thought about it. He was feeling kind of tired, had a knot between his shoulder blades from working at the computer all day, and Tony’s bed did look inviting. Not to mention Tony himself, hair all mussed and top two buttons undone; effortlessly casual as opposed to the usual meticulously crafted casual. He had to figure the chances of only sleep occurring were fairly slim.

“Okay, thanks.”

Tim watched as Tony gathered pillows and blankets, dumping them on one side of the couch. He tried to help, but was shushed away.

“So I guess it’s bed time?” he asked, gazing perplexedly at Tony spreading out a sheet.

“Why, did you wanna do something? Watch a film? I have _Revenge of the Nerds_.”

“Okay, first of all, no, no movie. Second, why do you do that?”

Tony looked confused, but Tim didn’t buy it. “Do what?”

“If it’s not SF, it’s like, _WarGames_ , or _Porky’s_. Movies you seem to think I would enjoy based on some form of shared experience, or inherent interest.” Tim put on the stupid jock voice he had cultivated years ago to use for mockery in High School. “McGee was a virgin ‘til he was twenty-five, this is right up his alley, huh huh huh. McGee’s a massive nerd, he’ll love this, could almost be one of the characters, ha ha ha.”

“Okay, first of all, only someone with a PhD in Geek would call sci-fi ‘SF’. Second, I like 80s films.”

Tim scowled. “I am more than a geek, Tony. I like genres other than _sci-fi_.”

“I know. We’ve watched hundreds of films together. Remember Hitchcock week? Vin Diesel’s most excellent repertoire, including _The Pacifier_? _The Sound of Music_? You’re the one who’s turned this into a thing.”

“I have not. I’m just saying...”

“You don’t wanna watch _Revenge of the Nerds_. I get it,” Tony said. He continued speaking under his breath, but his words were still clearly audible. “And you don’t like being called a geek. Even though you are one.”

Tim pushed him onto the couch and settled over his thighs, deliberately looming and hoping he looked at least marginally menacing. “How come I’m the geek when you’re the one who can give timestamps for major events in Bond films? Who knows the cinematographer on various John Ford films? Who quotes _Star Trek_ alongside discussing _Las Hurdes_?”

Tony laughed --- a deep, joyous sound that only infuriated Tim more. “I never said I’m _not_ a geek.”

“But you’re not. No one thinks you are. They take one look at you and go, ‘Oh, he’s so dreamy. What I wouldn’t give to feel those manly arms around me.’ Or ‘he’s strong-looking, but I think I could take him in a fight.’ One look at me, and suddenly they remember they couldn’t network their printer, and would I please go take a look at that, because clearly I would know.”

“You do know,” Tony said, still laughing.

“That’s beside the point.”

“I don’t even know what the point is, Timothy. I know you’re not just a geek, but you are a geek. You should be happy about that. You can do things I couldn’t even imagine. People look at you and recognise that you have a brain. How many people do you think realise that about me? And I didn’t choose _Revenge of the Nerds_ because I think it would interest you. I picked it because it interests me. Okay?”

Tim took a deep, shuddering breath and climbed off Tony. “I’m going to bed.”

He stomped into Tony’s room and stripped to his boxers, slid under the covers and closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep and not think about how much he hated Tony’s ability to be distressingly convincing in arguments. He could hear Tony turning and tossing on the couch, the sound of a pillow being fluffed and cushions being adjusted. Twenty minutes later, Tony got up and padded around the living room. Ten minutes after that, he’d turned on the television. Tim glared into the dark and went to stand at the doorway, not surprised to see Tony sprawled on the couch with the remote in his hand.

“Uncomfortable?”

“Yeah.”

“Come sleep in your bed. There’s room.”

Tony nodded once, switched off the television, and followed him into the bedroom. Tim didn’t for a second think that this hadn’t been a ploy. He climbed back into bed and waited for Tony’s move. A hand on his leg, or lips against his neck, maybe even contact more daring. But Tony just climbed in next to him and lay on his stomach. Tim continued waiting, turning onto his side. Once again, there was no touching. After several minutes, he registered a change in Tony’s breathing and realised he must be asleep.

Tim didn’t have words for how bizarre this was. It couldn’t be that their quarrel had put him off, because, in the past, Tony had thrived on how annoyed he’d get, would deliberately work him into a fury in order to capitalise on his passion. And, okay, so it had been a couple of years now, but Tony had started looking at him like he used to; smouldering and intense, had begun to play a game of ‘who can flirt the most without being told off’, had set up that whole ‘Claire’ thing, and had been inviting him out places, like the basketball game, so Tim had assumed --- he’d believed --- he had thought Tony wanted to recommence their previous arrangement of no-strings-attached sex.

Yet here he was, sleeping. And Tim had to come to terms with the horrible realisation that he had really hoped Tony would make a move, because he didn’t want to handle the awkwardness of rejection. _He_ wanted what they’d had before, if not a relationship that was a little more solid and monogamous. But if Tony wasn’t already midway through sexing him up, he clearly didn’t want to. He was not that guy who waited patiently because he was afraid. If he wanted something, he grabbed it, even if it wasn’t his to take. Tim scrunched his eyes tight. Having Tony so close and yet so far tugged at his insides, until he felt he’d wake up hollowed out, a shell of a man. If he could even manage to get to sleep.

*

The first part of Tim’s plan went well. He found the night vision goggles he wanted and made it safely to the generators. He didn’t have any time to spare, so he wreaked senseless destruction as opposed to technical genius, disassembling with the aid of a chair.

The second part of the plan was the hard part. He didn’t know the direction Tucker had gone in and with the lights off, Campbell’s army were on high alert. Tim had been witness to enough drills to know, roughly, what they were going to do. Gear up, send two men to find out what went wrong, fortify a controlled section of the base, which was typically the kitchen due to the high number of ready-to-hand weapons at their disposal.

He launched into a jog, checking rooms as he travelled. He very nearly got caught by a couple of men, boots crashing noisily on the concrete floor (probably on their way to find out what went wrong), but dodged into another room just in time.

‘Okay,’ Tim thought as breathing became harder due to anxiety and fear, and he willed his legs to start moving again ‘I can totally do this. I am not alone.’ But he couldn’t be sure as to when Gibbs and Ziva would turn up, and he hadn’t heard Tulloch’s voice in the rec room. For the moment, he was Tony’s only salvation, and while, yes, the romantic thought of being a hero and knight in shining armour had come into his mind a few times over the years, he’d never quite imagined the hard work that went along with it. He was not John McClane. Nor Batman. And he sure as hell wasn’t Duke Nukem.

Every room he entered appeared to be empty and he could hear footfall again (probably of the men about to report what had gone wrong), seeing the world through night-vision goggles was making him vaguely nauseous, and he kept replaying a scene in his mind of getting to Tony two minutes too late. He picked up his pace and jogged into the next room.

The next room was not empty. There was a standing figure and a sitting figure, and Tim launched himself at the standing figure before he had time to recognise who it was and began punching it as hard as he could, to a few pathetic grunts and a muffled howl of pain. He tackled the figure --- who was definitely Tucker --- down to the ground and settled on top, continuously pummelling. There was some resistance as Tucker squirmed and writhed, but it didn’t last for long, and he was still punching, had to be positive, until there was no movement --- not a twitch, not a whimper. What felt like blood coated his bruised knuckles, and he stood, shakily, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“What’s going on?” Tony asked, sounding authoritative and cocky, which Tim knew was his cover for being chicken-shit scared.

“I’ve come for you, Tony,” he said, moving closer and fumbling around his back for the knots in the rope.

“Tim? Timmy! Am I dead?”

“No.”

“Are you a ghost?”

“Also no.”

“Then I’m confused.”

Tim continued to struggle with the knot. “I don’t have time to explain in depth right now, but we faked my death, okay?”

“I’m experiencing a weird mixture of euphoria and blinding rage,” Tony said, wriggling around, and finally, finally the knot was unravelling and Tim could haul him to his feet.

“That sounds like me after almost all of my interactions with you,” Tim said as they moved toward the door, and it occurred to him that Tony hadn’t merely been tied up as they stumbled along; he was definitely dragging his right foot. To lend credence to Tim’s theory, Tony gave a harsh-sounding wheeze as they entered the hallway.

“How badly did they beat you up?” Tim whispered, even though he thought they should be as silent as possible, given that Campbell had to know there was an intruder on base by now.

“It hurts but I don’t think I’ll need to eat steak through a straw,” Tony returned.

They staggered along together in this way for minutes, taking one turn after the other, before there was another sound of footsteps straight ahead and no conveniently placed door to go through. Tim stood stock still, pulling Tony back.

There was a shout of, “they’re here!”, the crack of gunshot, and before Tim knew it he was being catapulted to the ground as another bang filled the air and reverberated in the space between his ears. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. He wasn’t meant to get this close to happiness and have it snatched away. What the hell was Tony _thinking_? If anyone should die, it should be the man who was already dead.

Tim’s heart flew up and blocked his wind-pipe and he choked back a sob as Tony collapsed next to him. He didn’t have time to think. He rolled onto his stomach, pushed himself up and ran headlong into the gunman, reckless in his violence, toes satisfyingly crashing into a shin, blade of his hand snapping into a carotid artery, fist giving an uppercut to the right side of a jaw. The guy --- he thought it was Anderson, but he didn’t care --- lowered to his knees and then crashed to the concrete, head making a sickening thumping sound. He also grabbed for Tim’s ankle and claimed it, sending him to the ground. He began to punch in quick succession, knocking the night-vision goggles off Tim’s head.

This is when Tim’s instincts went into overdrive. He used all of his strength to gain leverage and smashed his elbow into Anderson’s sternum. He successfully dodged a punch, gave one of his own, then another, and another, until sweat was trickling down his nose and Anderson’s attempts to defend himself were becoming feeble. Tim stood and started kicking Anderson, hard. Like Tucker before him, Anderson stopped moving, but Tim kicked four more times and took all the weapons he could before he made his way back to Tony’s lying form.

“Tony?” he said, kneeling down and flailing for contact. “Tony, tell me the bullet missed you?”

“I think it hit me dead centre,” Tony wheezed, coughing twice. “Which is just as well, because the Kevlar stopped it from doing any real damage other than winding me.” He banged his fist against his chest. “If it’d gone through my head, it’d be another story.”

Tim couldn’t contain his fear and elation and didn’t want to. He helped Tony into a sitting position and shook him. “Oh God, Tony, don’t ever do that to me again. I thought I’d lost you.”

“Yeah? Well, same back-atcha.”

Tim knocked his head against the hallway wall, wondering why there weren’t already four men rounding the bend and ganging up on them, but welcoming the silence. “This is very _Romeo and Juliet.”_

“Zeffirelli or Luhrman?”

“Neither.”

“Not Castellani, because I gotta tell you, that has an ungodly amount of dubbing and it’s really obvious.”

“The play, Tony. The play. By Shakespeare?”

“I know, Tim. Just lightening the mood. They die in _Romeo and Juliet_ , you know. Not just fake die, but die die, with hearts stopping and final breaths and you know what? I’m too young and pretty for that. I realise this now.”

Tim bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing. He punched Tony in the shoulder. It was half-hearted and still took a lot of effort, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. Tony edged close to him, body heat radiating as he nudged up to his side.

“You know, I never really believed it, even though I thought I’d seen it with my own eyes. I kept thinking that if I could bring Campbell down, you’d come back. And now. Now, I’m the happiest I think I’ve ever been, in my entire life, because I was right. You’re here. You’re real.”

“We’re not in the clear yet,” Tim said, but he tilted his head and was leaning in to kiss Tony when he heard Ziva’s voice ring out their names.

*

He missed Ziva. Not in the same way he’d missed Tony, all tense and raw, with a sense that he was incomplete. But he missed her. The way she’d side with him for the fun of it, her language quirks, how she could intimidate one second, be oddly sweet and cute the next. He knew that teams at NCIS or in any workplace were supposed to be flexible, that no one could hope to work with the same people forever --- agents got promoted, or shifted direction, or went back home. But part of him had always assumed, after Director Vance’s interference, that Gibbs would keep his team together for as long as humanly possible. Which, given that Gibbs seemed more superhuman than human most days, should be longer than this.

“What are you doing, McDreamy?”

“Thinking about Ziva. Was that a _Grey’s Anatomy_ reference?”

“If so, it was completely unintentional, I assure you. And the fact you thought it was reflects more on you than me. What were you thinking about Ziva?”

“I was thinking about how much I missed her.”

Tony nodded his head, pretending to be sage and wise. “Ah, yes. It is common in times of great change, young one. Do not fret.”

“You don’t miss her?”

Tony was evasive. “Of course I do, but it’s... complicated.”

“As always.”

“Thanks.” Tony turned back to his computer and made a show of typing. “We never went beyond friendship,” he said, conversationally. The set of his jaw and shoulders told Tim he wasn’t as relaxed as his tone suggested.

“All right.”

“Just thought you should know.”

“I’m not sure why, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

*

When Tim woke up, his head was swimming and he felt like his eyes had been gouged out with an ice cream scoop. He pressed his hands up to his face to check. No, they appeared to still be there, and, oh great, they’d begun to throb.

“You awake, McGee?” a familiar voice asked, and Tim opened his eyes slowly to see the looming spectre of Gibbs.

“I seem to be,” Tim said, croakily. His throat was sandpaper dry.

Gibbs gave him a glass of water as he adjusted position on what felt like a couch. After a quick glance, Tim surmised it was a couch, and Gibbs moved to sit next to him on it.

“How’re you feeling?”

“With respect, Boss, I’m not sure you’d want the answer. It’s bound to violate NCIS codes of conduct and decency regulations.” Tim took a large, greedy gulp of water. “What’s going on?”

“Fornell didn’t have all the details when he asked for our assistance. Campbell was already under investigation by Interpol.”

“Lemme guess; Peter Tulloch was their inside man?”

“Good guess. If I’d have known, there’s no way in hell I’d have sent you in. But as I said, Fornell didn’t have all the facts. Campbell’s group didn’t work alone.”

“I have proof of that, actually. Or, I did.” Tim rubbed at his head again, winced as he came into contact with a bruise.

“Tulloch has all your evidence. The deal is this; we don’t interfere and Interpol gather all the information they need on as many of these vigilante terrorist cells as they can. We get to arrest Campbell’s group.”

“Sounds fair.”

“There’s one problem,” Gibbs said, and his tone was slow and deliberate, and absolutely not anything Tim wanted to hear. “Tulloch shot you. You’re dead.”

“I’m fairly sure I’m not.”

“Campbell thinks you are, and until Interpol are finished, you have to be.”

“You mean, what? I go into hiding? You tell everyone I’m dead?”

“Worse. We’ve gotta make it convincing. We need to bury you, McGee.”

Tim didn’t like it when Gibbs stretched his name out so it became two and half syllables. Things were never good when there was more ‘muh’ than ‘gee’. He scrunched his fingers tighter to his palms and hoped --- God, how he hoped --- his bottom lip was staying resolute instead of wavering.

“You mean, for real? A coffin, and a hole in the ground, and ashes to ashes, dust to dust?”

“The whole thing.”

“What about my family? What about Ziva, Abby, Ducky, Tony?”

“You forgot Palmer. And they’ll be happy when it turns out you’re alive. It seems to me there are two choices. You either pretend to be dead, or you die. Because if you think Campbell’s not gonna come after you once he’s tortured and killed Tulloch for helping you escape, you’re even more naive than DiNozzo insists.”

Tim had never truly understood the phrase ‘trapped between a rock and a hard place’ until this moment. He’d used it in his novels, he’d said it, but he’d had no real-life experience to relate it to. Now, he knew. And it sucked just as much as he’d always assumed.

Gibbs gave him a look. His compassionate, understanding look. One Tim had seen before, but of which he’d rarely been on the receiving end.

“I know this doesn’t mean much, but I’m sorry, Tim. It won’t be forever. We need to destroy this terrorist ring, that’s all.”

“Oh, that’s all?” Tim asked, before he could stop himself. He rubbed his forehead once more, frowned. “You just apologised, Boss.”

“Sometimes it’s okay for a man to admit his weaknesses.”

When Fornell appeared, Tim felt like punching him in the throat, but he didn’t. He leaned back further on the couch and listened as Fornell talked about the make-up specialist, and stopping his heart, and the carefully rigged grave site to ensure he wasn’t buried alive, and really, he zoned out after ten minutes, because it was too much to process. All he could think about were the reactions of the people he cared about, and the anger and resentment when it was revealed he’d been lying, even though, for all intents and purposes, it was for a good cause. He thought about how he’d felt when it looked like Tony had been blown up and wondered if Tony would feel that same debilitating fear and desperation to disbelieve what appeared to be the truth.

But most of all, he thought about how stupid he’d been wanting to go undercover. Hadn’t the collective experiences of the people he worked with taught him anything?

By the time Fornell finished, Tim still felt like punching him in the throat, but he didn’t. He took the suggestion of getting some rest and curled up into a foetal position on the spare sofa-bed in Gibbs’ largely disused study.

*

“I don’t like your hair this short,” Tony said one day, scratching his fingernails lightly against Tim’s scalp. He had an itch and it felt so good. He whimpered softly when Tony pulled away. “There’s nothing to grip onto.”

“You should not be pulling McGee’s hair, Tony,” Ziva said from her desk, not looking up. “It is against the rules. He could report you for physical harassment.”

“You wouldn’t do that, would you, Timothy?” Tony asked, glinting mischievously. He continued to sit on Tim’s desk, but refrained from touching him further. Tim was tempted to reach out and grab his wrist, silently beg him to scratch his head again. He suspected that would be too intimate for the workplace.

“No, I’d just pull your hair back,” he admitted, quirking an eyebrow in warning.

“You are such boys,” Ziva sighed, returning her attention to her work.

“Did you want to do that, later?” Tony asked, bending down and speaking right by his ear; slow and sensual.

It took all of Tim’s self-will not to blush. Many of the evenings they’d spent together had seen Tim experiencing high-strung anticipation, he had wanted this for a long time, but he did not expect this advance to come in the middle of the office in the middle of the day.

“I do, but I’ve got a meeting with Gibbs. It sounds important. Raincheck?” he whispered back.

Tony gave his head another scratch, then catapulted himself toward his own desk. He gave a roguish grin while air-typing and mouthed, “email me.”

*

Interpol were not happy with the unfolding of events at Shenandoah, but, for his part, Tulloch --- whose real name was Jeff Morton --- seemed to be on their side. He’d been telling his superiors for weeks that he had enough information for several high-profile convictions, but they wanted bigger and better results, and Tim? He trusted Gibbs and his team and _only_ Gibbs and his team when it came to ‘the Feds’, which he thought put him only marginally above most criminals, but he was happy with that.

He and Tony didn’t get a minute alone together for five days straight of debriefings, celebrations and remonstrations, so when he was eventually able to escape, Tim made sure he had plenty of beer and two pepperoni, sausage and extra cheese pizzas in tow.

Tony’s expression upon opening his door was much like his expression every time they’d seen each other in fleeting glances the past few days; a combination of adoration and contained laughter. He stepped to the side and allowed Tim in, settling onto his couch within a few seconds. His next movement was for a slice of pizza. Tim didn’t think he was being too much of an asshole in feeling slightly disappointed.

Tony ate his pizza slice in silence, eyes roving, drinking Tim in, as if he couldn’t get enough of staring at him --- like he still thought Tim might vanish before his gaze.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta say this; you look ridiculous.”

“Gee, thanks, Tony. I’ve missed you too.”

“It’s true. Don’t get me wrong, you’re still hot like a pocket, but,” Tony flailed in the general direction of his head. “What is this? Why red? Why so bright? All you need now is a set of gigantic shoes and a squeezable nose. One of those hand-buzzer things. You’re good to go.”  
  
“Blame Fornell. Believe me, I’m planning on changing it as soon as I can muster up the energy to buy some dye.” Tim had his own slice of pizza, even as he mentally tallied up the amount of time it would take to work it off. “Can I just say that I’m finding your pettiness incredibly disheartening? Please remember I risked life and limb for you.”

“That doesn’t exactly make you superior. I did the same thing, and for all intents and purposes, you were dead.”

“I could be dead to you again, if you’d really like?” Tim said, feigning half the bitterness and letting the other half come naturally.

“No. I think this is better, for the both of us.”

They ate their pizza in silence, Tim waiting and hating himself for it. He kept thinking he should make a move, he should do something --- he’d been so close before. But changing who he was is what had gotten him into this mess in the first place, and he was still afraid of what would happen if it turned out he was misjudging Tony’s words and actions. He supposed it came down, once more, to being unable to believe that Tony could care for him as deeply as he cared for Tony --- that he was letting his insecurity overtake him --- but he didn’t have a place for self-knowledge in his mind, it had been shunted to the back for acres of self-help. So he ignored the wise but accusatory voice and remained quiet, all the while feeling increasingly perplexed and frustrated.

After the first pizza was finished, Tony broke the silence. “Before you went undercover you left me a message saying you wanted to tell me something. You have no idea how often I wondered what that something was.”

“I left you a second message telling you.”

“I didn’t get it. That’s been happening a lot over the past six months. People telling me they’ve called and left a message, only for there to be nothing but an eerie silence. I kept wanting to ask you to fix it, but... you know.”

Tim put his beer down on the coffee table and steadied his hands on his knees. “Are you yanking my chain?”

“Yeah, but not about this.”

Tim closed his eyes, weighed up the pros and cons of honesty. Ultimately he decided he was sick of playing his cards close to his chest. He’d said it once and he could say it again, even if this time, he had to face the consequences straight away. And as much as a scared-in-the-headlights Tony wasn’t top of his list of things to see before he died, he wanted to tell the truth.

“I love you, Tony. I don’t expect anything of you, not a relationship, not for you to say it back, hell, not even any acknowledgement, But I --- I had to tell---“

Tony moved swiftly, clamped a hand over Tim’s mouth. “Stop talking. Just stop talking.”

Tim did as he was told, inwardly sighing out of disappointment, but Tony didn’t stand up and pace like he expected him to, nor run screaming from the room. He kissed Tim, hard and greedy, cradling his face gently in his hands. He rubbed his thumb over his jaw line and down over his neck, fingers coming to rest on Tim’s shoulder. He pulled him closer and kissed deeper, tilting his head further for maximum access. And as he did this, his other hand had beat a path down Tim’s torso and abdomen and was travelling up under his t-shirt, smoothing over his skin and tangling into his chest hair.

They lost their clothes at some point between the couch and the bedroom, but Tim didn’t notice when. He wanted to enjoy this as if it were the last time they were going to be together. He thought, perhaps, every time they were together now would feel like a last time, and a first time, and as if time had lost all meaning. All Tim knew was that he was naked and Tony was working him open, slow and precise, pressing down on his hip and taking the head of his cock into his mouth; all with way too much co-ordination for Tim to even contemplate. Tim’s toes curled up and his thigh muscles tensed, pleasure too long denied flooding through his veins and sparking through his nerves.

Tony took his leg and deftly nudged him onto his side and then onto his stomach. It was Tim’s uninstructed choice to raise his lower body into a kneeling position and widen his stance. He rested his head on his forearms and moaned contentedly. Tony now kissed him at the base of his spine, still finger-fucking him, adding more lube and moving incrementally faster.

“I’m ready,” Tim murmured. “More than.”

“You can wait another minute,” Tony said, no malice, but a lot of cruelty.

Tim groaned, pushed himself back, widening a fraction of an inch.

“All right,” Tony said, as the bed dipped and Tim felt his cock, warm and solid, nudge against his hole. “On your six, Tim.”

“Jeez, Tony. You realise now when you say this at work, I’m gonna be thinking of, well...?” Tim stopped, gave a little whine as Tony entered him at a languid, steady pace, “your cock up my ass.”

“Precisely why I did it,” Tony replied, and Tim could hear his smile. “God, you feel good.”

Tim felt it would be overstatement if he repeated the same phrase, and his throat seemed to want to grunt as opposed to create anything more than unintelligible vowel sounds anyway, so that’s what he did. He gave all of his concentration to Tony moving within him, hard and thick, and forcing himself not to simply push back as fast as he could and take him all in one stroke.

Tony had always been a surprisingly attentive partner in bed, but now he was taking it to new heights, easing out and then in again with a tenderness like reverence, but this wasn’t what Tim wanted. He wanted it harder and faster, wanted to be able to feel Tony the next day, to be able to think that his small measure of pain was due to extraordinary pleasure, so he did move, finally, raising his arms and catching Tony off guard.

He pushed back and was gratified by a returning thrust, Tony clearly having gotten the message. The new angle meant Tim’s prostate was stimulated every time Tony propelled forward and he screwed his eyes tight and gritted his teeth, instinctively attempting to counterbalance the intensity of these sensations. He had a horrible feeling this was going to end a lot sooner than either of them wanted.

Tony reached a hand around him and stroked his cock, and Tim’s hips again moved of their own accord.

“I’m getting close,” Tony said, voice muffled. “Really, really --- you’re tight, Tim. And hot. And God, this should never, ever stop.”

Tim nodded an assent and rocked his hips some more, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, making it impossible for him to speak, even if he wanted to. Tony’s left hand clenched tighter into his hip just as his right hand continued to stroke him and it only took another four strokes before Tim was coming, hot and sticky, all over his stomach and the sheets, his body shuddering uncontrollably.

Tony eased him through the aftershocks and pushed into him maybe two more times before he came too, stiffening and then becoming boneless on top of Tim, a dead weight that was startlingly welcome.

It was at least two minutes before either of them moved, Tim being the first to roll out from under Tony’s crushing mass. He lay on his back and gazed at the ceiling, not caring that he was covered in sweat and his own come. Tony had crashed down onto his front, but he eventually shifted too and grabbed a damp towel so that they could clean up. He insisted on cleaning Tim himself, gliding the blue cloth over him with soft, sweeping motions and relaxing circular motions.

He made a kind of tutting sound and rubbed his thumb over Tim’s abdomen. “You’re so different.”

“You don’t like it?” Tim asked, hoping he’d kept the whine out of his voice.

“I never said that,” Tony said, rubbing again and pouting. “I don’t know if it’s gone way over your head, but I’ve always loved you for who you are.”

Tim looked Tony in the eye and saw nothing but adoration and earnestness. His heart gave a flip, the corners of his lips rose without him thinking about it, and he reached forward and dragged his fingers through Tony’s perfectly mussed hair. He realised Tony was telling the truth. That almost everything he thought was confusing about Tony and what had gone on between them before could easily be explained. It was so much simpler than he’d ever given it credit for being. He wasn’t the only insecure one in the relationship.

“You know, it did go over my head,” Tim said, “but I don’t think I’ll be making that mistake again.”

He adjusted position until Tony’s head was resting on his stomach, smile turning into a fully fledged grin as Tony licked him, and he reminded himself to always remember to enjoy who he was --- and who he was with.


End file.
